


We Are Heroes

by Little_Red92



Category: Jak and Daxter
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Medical Torture, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture, Underage Drinking, Underage Rape/Non-con, War, mentioned alcoholism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:15:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 56,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27317620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Red92/pseuds/Little_Red92
Summary: After spending a year in prison being experimented on with dark eco and suffering abuse of unfathomable kinds at the hands of the ruthless Baron Praxis and his right-hand man, Commander Erol, Jak is freed by a kind physician, and given a second chance at life, and most importable a chance to find his friends again. Though nothing is ever easy and Jak’s trauma weighs heavily on him, and with each passing day, the dark eco grows stronger, consuming him, until only one goal remains: Kill Baron Praxis.
Relationships: Ashelin Praxis/Torn, Daxter/Tess (Jak and Daxter), Keira Hagai/Jak, Phoenix/OC
Comments: 36
Kudos: 27





	1. A Little Death

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya, so this story is a darker look at Jak 2 and has been a year in the making (and is still in progress) The idea came to me after reading Crossed Paths by Bookwrm389 and Captive Voice by Nashidesei. I have also taken inspiration from Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale and Marvels Jessica Jones.  
> I've wanted to write a Jak 2 AU for a while, but the idea wasn't fully formed until one night, when I should have been sleeping, I was struck by an idea. What would have happened had Jak been rescued sooner from prison and not by Daxter, but by a stranger, a stranger with a kind heart who was willing to risk life and limb to save someone they just met. I toyed with OC's for a while, considered making it Ashelin; then I remembered Phoenix, the only memorable person from The Lost Frontier. After selecting a character to rescue Jak, everything else began to fall into place.  
> I won't give too much away, but I will give a forewarning, this is not a light-hearted fic (it will contain non-con, medical torture, emotional manipulation, abuse, body horror, and a lot of emotional angst) I've created a gritty, punishing world for our heroes to navigate and I'll be exploring Jak's time in prison, the trauma that follows and the toll of a war against mad men and monsters. With that said, this story will feature light-hearted moments and be woven with hope, bravery, and rebellion and most importantly there will be a happy ending! I can’t do unhappy endings so no matter how dark this fic gets, there will always be light at the end.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ninety-two day ago, The Commander and the Krimzon Guards stole Jak from the streets, ripped him away before he'd even had a chance to make sense of this new world. Whatever lies outside these walls can't be any better, though he hopes that it is. Hopes that his friends are somewhere safe and warm and bright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a dark retelling of Jak 2. It'll be told through multiple characters povs. Jak will always be the primary focus, though part one and two will feature Phoenix heavily and his roll in Jak's rescue and recovery. Daxter will also eventually make an appearance and take his place as the secondary protagonist. This is definitely a big project and a new style of writing to approach, but I'm really proud of what I have so far and I'm eager to share it with the fandom - old and new.
> 
> This chapter contains underage non-con, (Jak is 16) non-con aftermath, mention of medical/dark eco torture and abuse.

**Part I: Captive**

**~Jak~**

Ninety-two days.

It's been ninety-two days since Jak woke with a splitting headache, shackled to a chair that was placed directly under a blinding light. At first, he thought it was the sun, that he'd drifted off to sleep on the beach. But this light wasn't warm or golden, he didn't smell the ocean or hear its gentle waves lapping against the shore. This wasn't Sentinel Beach. The light hurt his eyes, made them water and the pain in his head swell. He remembers feeling sick, remembers the world spinning madly for a few dizzying moments before settling on its axes. The room shifted into place, revealing darkness stretching out in every direction and in that darkness appeared two golden eyes, accompanied by a wicked smile.

The smile in the dark told Jak that he'd been chosen by Baron Praxis to help save Haven City, that his sacrifice was honourable, and he'd be remembered for the part he played in the war against the Metal-Heads. At the time Jak didn't know what any of this meant. He'd never heard of Haven City or Metal-Head's, and he certainly didn't agree to any of this. If only he could have spoken. If only he'd had a voice to shout with. Not that it would have done him any good, there were no kind souls within the fortress walls to help him.

There is just pain and darkness - misery and despair the only company to keep. Ninety-two day ago, The Commander and the Krimzon Guards stole Jak from the streets, ripped him away before he'd even had a chance to make sense of this new world. Whatever lies outside these walls can't be any better, though he hopes that it is. Hopes that his friends are somewhere safe and warm and bright. At night he dreams of them, of sun-drenched days splashing in the ocean and star-speckled evening sitting around fires, telling tales of heroes and legends.

During the day Jak is taken from his cell, escorted through long, twisting corridors to cold, steel rooms filled with torturous devices. Sometimes he goes without a fuss, too weak and sore from the last beating, from not enough food, to put up a fight. Other times he resists, trashes and kicks, struggling until there is blood in his mouth and bruises on his skin. They say he is a wild one. They try and break him with beatings and starvation. The Commander tries to trick him into thinking he wanted _this_ , that what they are doing is noble and right. Jak doesn't believe the lies coming from The Commander's poisonous tongue, doesn't let the beatings break him.

None of this is right. None of this is noble.

Dark eco devours reason, darkens hearts, and warps minds. It turns people into monsters, and that's what The Baron and his band of wicked men are trying to make of him. They stick sharp objects into his veins, drill into his bones, force toxic gas into his lungs. The dark eco burns through his bloodstream, sometimes feeling like fire, making his skin blister and peel, leaving him sweating and sweltering. Other times, with different treatments, it feels like ice. The cold spreads from within, tearing screams from his abused throat. He shudders and shakes, wishing that he'd just come apart.

But Commander Erol won't allow that to happen - the Baron would not be impressed if he lost his most promising dark warrior. The guards can beat and starve him, Commander Erol can strap him down on cold metal tables, flood him with dark eco, push him to the brink, but they won't let him die. Won't let him escape though he has tried and tried and failed many times over. The dark eco festers within, a deadly disease he cannot escape. Cannot cure. Maybe Samos can, perhaps there is still hope, still a chance to save the heroic village boy who lingers within.

One day soon, Daxter will come, just like he said. Like he _promised_. Jak will feel the warm sun beat down on him again. Will inhale fresh air and feel the breeze ruffle through his tangled, dirty hair. One day, if Jak can hold on, can survive the dark eco treatments and the rain of fists and steel-capped boots, he'll be free. Will find a way home. Then he can forget this awful experience ever happened. It will be just like a bad dream - a memory which will fade and tear around the edges with time.

Someday soon he'll be free, but until that day arrives, his only company is the darkness and the smile that glints within it.

**~~~~~~~~~~**

There are one-hundred and fifty-two notches on the wall, four dead cockroaches on the floor and possibly two rats living in the walls. It's been two and a half minutes since Erol crawled on top of him. The metal bedframe shakes, hot breath crawling like ants over Jak's left shoulder, drying the blood left there by sharp teeth. The sickly sound of flesh on flesh cuts through the air, Erol's grunts and moans a familiar soundtrack to the night. Jak's skin is dampening with sweat, the mattress collecting more stains. Erol pants in his ear, pace quickening as the end nears.

Jak doesn't scream tonight. Didn't put up much of a fight either. Erol strolled in, grin sharp as a knife and eyes full of wicked delights. The Commander didn't seem to mind Jak's obedience, he appeared to be in a hurry, stripping them both in quick motions before crawling onto the flimsy mattress, pinning Jak's fragile frame beneath his. Erol is after a quick release, not hours of stretched out pleasure that is only enjoyable for him. Jak can't complain. There is so much pain and misery that it's gotten to the point where he's grateful if it's short-lived.

Erol arrives with a painful twist of his hips and a cry of ecstasy that he muffles by sinking his teeth into Jak's already bleeding shoulder. The rats scurry about in the walls, a pipe shudders and the faucet leaks. Satisfied, at least for tonight, Erol pulls out, lingering on the edge of the cot, like he's got something to say. Erol often chats idly after these interactions, telling Jak things he probably shouldn't about the war, about the outside world. The Commander is loose-lipped when he comes down from his high.

Erol relishes in the pain he delivers, is the most alive when he's causing harm to others.

A tense moment passes by, Jak remains still, gaze locked on the wall, counting, counting, counting. _One-hundred-and-fifty_ , Erol rises without a word, _one-hundred-and-fifty-one_ he dresses in a hurry, _one-hundred-and fifty-two_ , he leaves, out of sight but never out of mind.

**~~~~~~~~~~**

It's day one-hundred-and-fifty-eight and Jak is delirious from a fever. The world drifts in out of focus, carrying him through pleasant memories of birthday parties celebrated with hummingbird cake and nights spent sitting around the fire, telling stories. Laughter and song fill his head, old nursery rhymes and tales weaving memories of dancing in the rain, playing in autumn leaves and catching snowflakes on pink tongues.

Held under by the spiking fever Jak falls through the cracks of time and lands in Samos's hut. It's dusk, the air smells of roasting meats and fresh summer fruits, Samos is standing by the window, keeping a watchful eye on Misty Island. Keira is downstairs tinkering on the zoomer, her soft humming drifting up through the cracks in the floorboards. Daxter, with wild fiery hair and freckled skin, scrubs furiously at the rug, muttering under his breath. The memory wraps around Jak, safe and comforting like an embrace, keeping the pain at bay.

Bright light assaults his vision, scattering the pleasant memory. Pain returns with a vengeance, spiking each time he is jostled by the guard dragging him someplace else. Jak doesn't struggle, doesn't have the energy too. He slips back down into the past, to Geyser Rock at sunset. The ocean is ablaze, painted brilliant reds and oranges, and he is bathed in the warmest gold. Keira sits to his left, cheeks flushed from the dying heat of the day, eyes dazzling in the twilight. Daxter is to his right, fur blowing in the evening wind.

They are happy.

They have hope.

Even though tomorrow is full of uncertainty and they don't know where the rift gate could take them. They are excited and eager to travel to someplace unknown. 'The future awaits,' Samos said in that sagely way of his. 'Tomorrow will be the start of your greatest adventure yet, Jak.'

The sun loses its last stand against the rising night, and Jak tumbles through the hands of time, returning to a broken, tainted body that is sweat-soaked and fever-stricken. Dark eco crawls beneath his skin, clawing and shredding cells and molecules, turning him into something else. Something dark and dangerous. Unfamiliar hands bruise and bind, force sharp objects into his veins, filling him with poison, with hatred. He waits for the burn of fire or ice, for every inch of his skin to feel like it's going to peel off.

The pain does not come; instead, the familiar warm tingle of green eco wraps around him, chasing away the blinding light, replacing it with a glittering night sky and a lush green jungle. The air is humid, is sticking to him like a second layer of skin. Summer has arrived, stretching the days out and shortening the nights. The ocean is calm and refreshing most days, apart from when wild storms blow in from the far north. The wind can billow and roar or be a gentle breeze constant enough to prevent any real heat from settling in. But the wind has trouble reaching the heart of the Jungle, the walls of trees and undergrowth barricading the heat in, making the earth swelter.

Jak finds a clearing by the dormant Precursor Temple, wipes sweat from his brow and reclines on the grass, gaze lifting to the night sky. Glittering constellations wink down at him, revealing tales of the Precursors to those who can read the night sky like pages from a book. To his left, Keira lays, hand raised up to the sky, tracing patterns with grease-stained fingertips and pointing out shapes that he and Daxter can't quite see.

Shooting stars streak across the sky, dazzling and wondrous, until something else catches Jak's eye. His gaze drifts to the girl lying next to him, to her emerald eyes that shine with a thousand pretty lights. In the dark Jak's hand finds its way to Keira's, their fingers entwining. Their eyes meet for the space of a heartbeat, breath held and stomachs filling with butterflies as in this moment, under a sky full of stars, they start to fall in love. If Daxter notices, he doesn't say anything.

In the distance storm, clouds gather, rolling in from the far, far north.

Sharp pain cuts through the peaceful night, shattering the memory with a devastating force. It tugs and pulls, hurtling Jak back to a living world of nightmares. He wakes with a start, to an unfamiliar room with a too-familiar face hovering in the dark. Jak tries pulling away, tries fighting the tendrils of fever-induced sleep that cling to him like cobwebs, the pathetic attempt leaving him shaking and gasping for breath.

Erol smirks, enjoying Jak's struggles, feeding on his panic. Cold fingers caress his cheek, pressing in firmly against bruises, a threat, and a reminder. Behave, obey, be a good boy. Jak shudders, wishing he could disappear, that he was brave enough to end this nightmare. Jak cannot give up, no matter how many bruises and scars he collects, no matter how much dark eco is forced into his bloodstream, no matter how many times Erol comes for him in the dead of night. He must stay alive.

Daxter is coming for him.

Daxter _will_ save him.

Jak just doesn't know if they will be anyone left worth saving.

"What are you doing in here?" A voice, hesitant but firm, demands from somewhere Jak cannot see.

"Just checking on the patient," Erol replied, voice smooth and so close to sounding affectionate, but Jak hears the hiss, knows there is a serpent hiding underneath.

"He needs rest," said the disembodied voice. "He won't be ready for visitors until tomorrow."

Erol hums, carding his fingers – which have left bruises, have ventured places they do not belong – through Jak's hair. He holds Jak's gaze, golden eyes gleaming with madness and glinting with the promise of more pain to come. Erol leans in, thin lips curling into a devilish smirk. "I'll be back for you later," he promises them walks away, footsteps sure and steady, echoing through the room long after he is gone.

Jak's face dampens under a steady stream of tears, lungs constricting as the air within them turns to gasoline. He cannot breathe, cannot see through the tears. Everything hurts. He is scared, doesn't want to be alone in the dark with another stranger. Wants to break free of the cuffs that bind and rip the needle from his vein. He wants to run, to escape from this hellish place. To go home. But all he can do is tremble and shake and hope the stranger in the dark isn't as cruel as Erol or the Baron.

Which is doubtful. This cold, lonely place is full of dark hearts and wicked minds.

Jak breaks and breaks, each day coming undone a little more, losing pieces of himself to Erol, to the dark eco, to the Baron. Choking on a bitter sob, Jak struggles weakly against the hands holding him down. Blinded by tears, fuelled by fear and desperation, he fights, writhing and twisting until the pain is unbearable. Darkness rushes in, carrying him far, far away, to a warm bed that is his own, in a hut by the sea, that resides in a small village where the people are kind, and he is loved.


	2. Panic Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phoenix Waterford tried to be brave once, rebellious, but that ended in gunfire and blood, now he's no longer brave. He's not much of anything. Phoenix's troubled past and bad luck have gotten him a job at the Baron's prison, which resides on a gloomy island of the shores of Haven City. Phoenix accepts his new position without fuss. Obeys the rules and doesn't breathe a word of what he sees to the outside world. That is, until a young prisoner named Jak, who's been injected with dark eco and has some very telling bruises, is brought into the infirmary. Now Phoenix must decide what kind of men he's going to be. Will he continue to turn a blind eye, or will he risk his life to save a boy he's just met?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers below
> 
> This chapter contains mention of rape and medical examinations/treatment of sexual assault

**~~Phoenix~~**

It's raining. Of course, it's fucking raining. Phoenix couldn't get a bright, crisp Autumn day to greet him for the first day of his new job, now could he? Instead, he had to wake to a watery dawn, make his way through the drenched streets, to the bus stop a block away. The rain pelts against the awning, falling like icy shards of glass from the dark sky. Phoenix wished he were still in bed, sipping Earl Grey tea while deciding what to cook for breakfast – French toast or an omelette? Either would have been more enjoyable than the dry toast he chocked down before racing out the front door.

Phoenix is always running late, not because he isn’t able to be somewhere on time, but because he never wants to be at the _somewher_ e. Phoenix has spent a lifetime being ordered to go places he doesn't wish to go – parties at political figures glossy and golden homes, piano lessons with Mrs Finch – but like a good boy he always showed up. Late and dishevelled, but they're just the same. Today Phoenix cannot be late, the punishment for not turning up would not be a long lecture or night without dessert.

He’s been employed by the Commander of the Krimzon Guard to be the attending physician at Mist Isle Prison. Perhaps if he put more effort into making an impression last year, instead of sleeping in and having affairs with fellow colleagues, then he would have been assigned a better placement. As it stands, Phoenix's tardiness and general misfortune have led him to standing on a curb, on a miserable cold, wet morning, waiting for the airbus to arrive.

At least he can take a small amount of joy over his parents’ disappointment. It’s become a bit of a thing, outraging his father, and bringing shame to his mother. This new, undesirable job is a blemish on the Waterford’s perfectly polished reputation. Phoenix was supposed to intern at Precursor’s Health and Healing Hospital, the overly bejewelled building that resides in Upper Haven. Its where respectable physicians go to treat the wealthy citizens of Haven City. It’s an honour to be invited to work at such a prestigious hospital; to treat council members and their families.

Phoenix has been given a position so far removed from the lush, golden part of town, and yet, he couldn't care less. His reputation has been in shambles for years, name stained and no longer spoken with an air of respect. Once upon a time, when he was young, reckless, and hopeful, Phoenix joined a fringe movement to free the city from Baron Praxis's tyranny. One day, on a morning just like this, the people poured into the streets, marched in protest of their malevolent leader, chanting, shouting, begging for change. To be freed from the shackles and injustice.

The people tried, they fought and cried with all their might, but all they got for their desperate effort was a mouthful of bullets. Phoenix's rebel streak ended in blood and disgrace. After that day, he returned to the path that was hand-chosen for him, but it was no longer lined with gems and gold. He wasn't a rebel fighting for change, but he wasn't a noble son enjoying the finer things either. Too afraid to re-join the fight but fire not yet burnt out; he decided to attend med school.

His parents thought it was terrific, that he'd left behind his selflessness. In some ways he did, he hasn't done anything heroic or worthy of praise in the last eight years. In all honesty, his life has been a disaster, yet he made it through med school, he attended political parties and never uttered a word of resistance. His only act of disobedience was moving out of home and into a one-bedroom apartment in a less desirable part of town.

It was easy to carry out affairs when the neighbours were too busy working and raising children to care who came and went from the apartment at the end of the hall. He invited in beautiful, intelligent women and handsome, daring men. Tried filling up the emptiness with one-night stands, tried forgetting the sight of brains splattering the pavement, the taste of copper on his tongue. He tried to make a difference once, and he failed.

He could have tried again, could have run away and joined the Underground, been brave and bold like the heroes who built Haven city. But he didn't. Instead, he pushes the memories down, locking them in a box that resides in a dark corner of his mind. The airbus hovers into sight, a crimson slash against the grey dawn. Exhaling the grief, the panic that never entirely leaves his lungs, Phoenix steps up and into the crimson red bus that smells of sweat and tobacco and sits down on an uncomfortable seat, next to a tinted window and waits, silently, to reach his destination.

***

It takes thirty-five minutes to reach the prison. The weather prevents the airbus from travelling directly to the island, so Phoenix and the other morning crew are ushered into a dome glass building that teeters over the bluff. Outside the ocean rages, crashing against jagged rocks and lashing dangerous against the glass walls. It feels as if any moment the black sea will rise, pull the building from its concert foundations, and drag it and every living soul in it down into the depths. That of course, is not possible, it’s only the wildness of the weather that allows for such fantasies.

There is a sense of foreboding about this morning’s weather, it seems like a warning, an omen of ill tides to come. As Phoenix stands in line, waiting anxiously for his turn to travel across the bay by warp gate, he can’t help but feel a sense of dread stir awake. Perhaps it’s just the first day jitters made worse by too many bedtime stories as a child or the fact the prison looks like some form of monster rising out of the fog, the searchlight it’s one eye scanning for prey.

Or perhaps, it’s the cautionary tales of people going into the Baron’s prison and never coming out again. Or the rumours, the ones people whisper about when the Krimzon guards aren’t around to hear; that the Baron is conducting experiments on the inmates. The rumours say the Baron is trying to use dark eco to make super soldiers to stop the Metal Heads. Baron Praxis likes to pretend that he has the Metal Head’s under control, but just last week, eight people died when a group of Grunts invaded the Bazaar.

Praxis is desperate to stay in power, will give anything and everything to win this war. It’s no stretch of the imagination to see him resorting to creating an ultimate weapon to defeat them, but super soldiers forged in dark eco is impossible. No one can channel dark eco, most can’t even channel the harmless core four. Sages and channeler’s vanished long ago, leaving the world with little hope or magic. What would Phoenix do if these rumours were true anyway? A hero would take the evidence to the Underground, would stand up and fight. Phoenix isn’t a hero; he isn’t much of anything these days.

Giving the prison one last wary look, Phoenix steps into the warp gate, feeling the world dissolve around him. For a beautiful, blissful moment he is suspended in nothing, is surrounded by glorious light and feeling weightless for the first time in years, then he is out the other side. He stands in a similar room, surrounded by guards. They check his ID and paperwork, pat him down and search through his belongings before shoving him roughly towards the exit.

Outside, the rain has slowed to a drizzle, the air damp. Phoenix is greeted by another guard, but he isn't wearing a helmet or the trademark bulky armour, though his uniform is still crimson, and his face marked with grey tattoos. He doesn't smile or say hello, or offer a friendly smile, though his posture is slightly less rigid than the other guards. Hands behind his back, tone clipped and business-like, he tells Phoenix to follow him then turns in the direction of the prison.

It's a wet, cold trek up the stone steps to the top, and by the time they make it Phoenix is shivering, wishing for a hot coffee to chase the chill from his bones. They come to a halt outside the prison, waiting for the large hydraulic doors to open. There is a hiss and whirring of mechanisms as the crimson doors slowly part, revealing a deserted entrance hall that smells strongly of mildew and salt. There is no tour or introduction, nothing but cinder block walls and green lights blinking in dark corners. Phoenix is ushered on, like a prisoner being led to his cell.

The silent guard escorts him to an elevator, which takes them to the fourth floor, then their journey continues through layers of security doors and twisting corridors. Eventually, they arrive at another mechanical door that requires a passcode and an identification card to open. The hydraulic door hisses open, revealing a dark and gritty hallway that smells of mildew and salt from the sea that can be seen in glimpses through the sparse grime-covered windows.

Rats scurry behind the walls while spiders spin cobwebs in the corners. This facility is breaking several health violations, and if Phoenix were to report it or mention it to the guard, he'd be met by a glare of annoyance or possibly a bullet. Remaining silent, Phoenix marches on, inwardly hoping the infirmary is in better condition. Or at the very least vermin free. His mother would loathe this place, she'd throw a fit if she had to spend one second here.

As he and the guard take another turn, an image of his mother flickers in his head. She's sitting down, at the eight-seater mahogany table, though there are only two people in the house, for breakfast, being served tea and fresh fruit by the maids. He wonders if she's thinking of him if his bedroom is still empty or has it been converted into an office or another generic bedroom for an underpaid maid to sleep in. Does she miss him? Does Phoenix miss her or is it just an ache at being in an unfamiliar place that is tricking him into thinking that he does.

“Here’s your new home,” the guard says, pulling him rather violently out of his thoughts. He is gesturing to a darkened room, indicating Phoenix should go in with a tilt of the head. “It’s one of the nicer places here,” he adds, lips curling into a brief smile.

Phoenix returns the smile, noticing for the first time that the guard is rather handsome, in a rugged, sharp jawed sort of way. “Lucky me,” he said, shimmering past the guard to enter the room. Maybe working here won’t be so bad after all. Fumbling in the dark, Phoenix locates the switch, light rushing in to chase away the gloom, revealing a small, standard medical office, featuring an observation window, beyond it, the infirmary.

“The medical equipment is next door.” The guard hands him a plastic key card attached to a red cord, which Phoenix places over his head, it dangles on his chest with his unflattering ID tag. “There is also a kitchen stocked with tea and coffee opposite the medical supply closet, and the bathroom is located in your sleeping quarters which is back the way we came.” He rattles these off with practised ease, the way Phoenix would rattle off a list of symptoms to an attending. “Any questions?”

“Am I the only physician here?” The infirmary only contains four beds, which is strange, given the size of the prison, but he wasn’t expecting to be working alone. He might need assistance, advice, a second pair of hands. It looks like he’ll be going it alone like he always does.

“No.” The man answers, shifting from foot to foot, gaze flickering towards the doorway, hesitating a moment before saying, “look, you seem like a nice guy, so I’m going to give you some advice.” He levels Phoenix with a firm stare, it’s not threatening, but the warning is clear. “Don’t ask questions. Just keep your head down and treat the inmates. Most importantly, don’t tell anyone about what you hear or see here. If you do, the Commander will personally cut out your tongue, and that’s if you don’t end up in the Red Square.”

Phoenix swallows thickly, feels the ever-present chill in his lungs flare, icy tendrils reaching out to squeeze his racing heart. He nods curtly, fingers curling tight against the flicker of rage. It’s snuffed out just as fast, smothered by the memory of blood falling from the sky like rain. To this day, he can still hear their screams, the sound of bullets sailing through the air and bodies dropping to the wet pavement. He is silenced by the past, by pain woven so deep, it feels like it will never heal.

“I won’t say a thing.” The words are bitter in his mouth, fill him with shame, but what other choice does he have? The threat of being hung or maimed for treason is very real. Everyone in Haven City knows the penalties for disobeying the Baron, and yet people fight for their freedom every day.

They are brave and fearless while Phoenix remains cowardly. 

“Good,” the guard says, but his voice is strained, gaze glistening with something akin to sadness. He almost seems disappointed. But the look is gone with a flutter of dark lashes and Phoenix thinks he imagined the whole thing. “I’m Ivan, by the way, you’ll be seeing a lot of me.”

“Phoenix,” he offers his hand and forces a friendly smile.

Ivan takes his hand, shaking it firmly, full lips quirking into a half-hearted smile. “Go get settled in, I’ll be back shortly with your first patient.”

Without another word Ivan marches back into the hall, leaving Phoenix to stand alone in the quiet, dark room, wishing that he’d stayed in bed this morning.

**~~~~~~~~~~**

There’s a constant ache in Phoenix’s chest these days, accompanying the throbbing in his head too, but it’s physical, can be treated with pills and rest, the ache in his chest is different, is _familiar_. It’s a pang of guilt, of sorrow. He does his best to ignore it, smothering it with bourbon and sleeping pills, squashing it down, down, down. It’s an unhelpful, unhealthy way to cope, but he’s doing the best he can, given this messed up situation.

It's not a situation Phoenix ever wanted to find himself in, yet it had crossed his mind all those weeks ago, before Autumn shifted into Winter, before he’d stepped foot in this place. It turns out the rumours, the _whispers_ , are true. Baron Praxis is conducting dark eco experiments on a select group of inmates, and out of all the physicians in Haven City, he was the one chosen to treat them. Only there is no treatment for dark eco poisoning, it’s worse than a virus, than cancer.

The Baron is mad, is torturing people, and is _killing_ people in the hopes of creating something strong enough to fight in the war against the Metal Heads. At least, that is what the rumours claimed, what seems to be the most likely reason. The Baron doesn’t need super soldiers otherwise; he’s already brought this city to its knees. Of course, it doesn’t really matter what Praxis is trying to do, because no one is going to survive this insane experiment of his.

Phoenix has already lost three patients since starting five weeks ago, two choked on their own blood, and the third man's heart stopped. That’s three lives lost, s _tolen._ The guilt is immense; is eating him alive. Phoenix should do something, _anything_ , instead, he keeps his head down and treats his patients the best he can. He’s ashamed of himself, and yet he arrives on time every morning, goes through the motions without fail. At night, as he lies awake, he tricks himself into believing that he’s making a difference, that at least he’s showing the prisoners kindness and care.

He tells himself one day he’ll be brave and do something.

Today is not the day to be brave, to be rebellious. Not inside these walls, which could swallow him whole without warning. He’ll keep carrying secrets home, continue going through the motions and burying the guilt under vices and distractions. Phoenix pushes the spiralling thoughts away, takes a sip of coffee, a little too bitter for his liking, and turns his gaze towards the infirmary, looking past the empty beds to the window overlooking the city.

He tries to focus on the clouds gathering in the sky above the city, promising more snow, tries to think of nothing at all, would like his mind to be a blank space just like the bone-white sky. It works for a moment, but Phoenix's head is full of landmines. And like that, he's thinking of Ivan, of those warm hazel eyes flecked with green. Ivan, who’s just the right amount of mysterious and dangerous to be interesting.

He knows so little about the man, he gives little away, but Phoenix doesn’t need a life story or profound emotional connection – he needs a distraction. He _needs_ someone to get lost in, a body to bury himself in when the bad memories start creeping in. There is a spark between them, enough to encourage touch, let gazes linger. This temptation is familiar, and diving into beds is far easier than diving into the mess that is his mind.

Giving in to this temptation is safer than giving in to the spark of rebellion that’s flickering back to life in his chest, growing stronger with each day, with each bruised and beaten face that comes his way. People are dying, and he could do something, but he doesn't. Instead, he flirts. Instead, he thinks of all the places he could fuck Ivan without getting seen, which in this empty hell hole is literally almost anywhere. They could do it right here, on this chair, on the desk.

He could give in to the spark, not the one of desire but the one telling him to be brave. To stand up and fight, to rebel like he did when he was seventeen. His mind is splintering; is threatening to make foolish decisions. Frustrated, Phoenix drops his head into his hands, eyes closing against the pain that beats through his head like a war-drum. Sleep crests over him, soothing and welcome, only to be scattered moments later by the sound of approaching footsteps.

Lifting his heavy, aching head, Phoenix swivels the chair around to face the door, giving off the impression that he’s been working hard all morning, rather than drinking coffee and losing his damn mind. Ivan steps into sight, half carrying, half dragging a small, frail figure. Phoenix immediately rises to his feet, rushing forward to help Ivan carry the prisoner into the sickbay. Ivan lays the writhing boy down on the bed, cuffing him to the guard rail like he does with every prisoner though this inmate looks far too ill to cause any trouble.

Ivan steps back, silently observing and Phoenix moves in, brushing away the prisoners mattered golden hair to get a better view of his face. Phoenix's breath catches in his throat, heart sinking to the pit of his stomach. He lifts his horrified gaze to meet Ivan's as if to confirm that he too is seeing this. The expression looking back is carefully guarded. Anger flares hot and white through his veins, is gasoline straight to his heart, to where the spark builds and grows. The semi-conscious prisoner is just a boy, no older than sixteen. Whatever crimes this boy committed, if there were any, couldn’t be worthy of this cruel punishment.

“Phoenix.” Ivan’s voice reaches out to him, commanding but gentle, calming the storm swelling within. “Can I help?”

It’s not Ivan’s job to help Phoenix tend to the patients, he’s just the delivery man, the eyes watching over him, protecting him from unruly patients. Or maybe he’s watching for other reasons, but Phoenix doesn't like to think about that. Over the past five weeks, he's come to know Ivan, can sense there is a spark inside him too. It's smothered down, hidden under layers of crimson armour, but it's visible enough that he feels he can trust Ivan.

“Can you fetch me a gown? There in the cupboard over there.” He gestures hastily in the direction of the built-ins, before returning his attention to the boy. “Hello, I’m Doctor Phoenix Waterford.” He doubts the kid is lucid enough to understand him, but it doesn’t feel right to begin treatment without introducing himself or informing the patient of what he’s about to do. “I’m going to get you out of these clothes and into a gown,” he explains, keeping his voice low and calming, “and while I do this I’m going to examine you, is that alright?”

The boy blinks up at him, glassy gaze shifting in and out of focus. His mouth opens, lips moving likes he's trying to speak, but no words come out.

“He can’t talk.”

“What?” Phoenix's head jerks up.

“He’s mute,” Ivan clarified, soothing his worries, "or something like that. The last physician couldn't find anything physically wrong with him, yet he never utters a word." He moves closer, setting the gown on the table at the end of the bed.

“I see.” Phoenix gaze returned to the boy, studying him carefully. There’s something strange about him, something that he can’t quite put a word to. “Who is he?” the question leaps from his tongue without warning, pushed out by burning curiosity.

“I don’t know,” Ivan replied, sounding troubled, "but he's important to the Baron, so you best do everything in your power to keep him alive.”

Phoenix’s gaze flickers between Ivan and the frail, fever-stricken boy. He wants to ask why he's so important, what makes him unique while all the others were disposable. He wants to know why Praxis thinks it's okay to experiment on a child, why the guards think it’s okay to cover a kid’s skin in bruises. Phoenix asks none of these things, though the questions burn at the base of his throat, forcing him to swallow the fury and say instead; “Right then, we best get to it.”

“I’ll follow your lead.”

“Right," Phoenix keeps his tone business-like, tries to not let his emotions get the better of him. His father warned him against thinking with his heart, said men that were ruled by their emotions were weak. Phoenix isn't weak, but he's not strong either, not the way his father wanted him to be. But right now, there is no other choice but to steel himself against the cold flood of horror. "Help me undress him," he orders, voice unwavering.

They set to work peeling away the filthy prison-issued shirt, revealing a malnourished frame that shivers and shakes. The boy’s tan chest is covered in pale purple scars that fan out from four puncture wounds that sit right above his beating heart. Phoenix has never seen anything like it before, it's as if lightning had struck the boy in the chest, leaving behind a painful reminder.

“What the hell have they done to him?” the words escape on their own accord, springing free before Phoenix can trap them behind clenched teeth.

"Dark eco experiments," Ivan answered, "it started with IV's and gas masks, now it's… it's something else."

It’s horrifying. It’s monstrous. Everything that is happening within this dark, twisted place is inhumane. Phoenix exhales shakily, hands trembling as he works on removing the remaining article of clothing. The boy groans weakly, hands pulling feebly at the cuffs, aggravating old wounds. The poor boy’s body is a patchwork of scars and bruises in all stages of healing. Most of the bruises are shapeless, could be fists or steel-capped boots, but some have shape, like the finger marks around his throat, like the handprint on his upper thigh. It's these ones that steal Phoenix's breath, make him halt, stomach twisting in revelation.

Shaken, _sickened_ , Phoenix looks up, meeting Ivan's widening eyes. "He’s been raped.”

“You don’t know that,” Ivan said, shaking his head dismissively. “They could be from the guards holding him down.”

Phoenix grits his teeth against Ivan’s response, it’s plausible and certainly a less disturbing explanation, but now that he’s looking, seeing past the grime covered skin, he can see more evidence to support his claim. It’s discoloured and faint, but as Phoenix gently parts the boy’s thighs, he finds flecks of dried blood and semen sticking to his skin. The boy flinches at the invasive touch, trying desperately to crawl away.

“It’s alright,” Phoenix soothes, removing his hands from the boy’s thigh. He trembles, eyes fluttering wildly as he struggles to stay conscious. "I'm not going to hurt you." He places a steadying hand on the boy's chest, gently holding him down, so he doesn't further injure himself. "It's alright, you're safe here." With one last feeble attempt, the boy's blue eyes roll back, head lolling to the side as he passes out. “We have to report this.”

“We can’t.” Ivan snapped, words cutting harshly through the air. "There's nothing we can do-” he takes a step back, “-and it's not like anyone will care.” He adds, like an afterthought, an excuse to make himself feel better.

“There has to be something we can do!” Phoenix protested, a frantic edge creeping into his voice. “Surely someone cares.”

“Not on this island.” He reaches across the boy’s chest, grabbing Phoenix’s hand, pulling it away from where he left it resting, a feeble attempt to offer the boy comfort. He squeezes Phoenix’s wrist tight in warning, those once warm, rich hazel eyes darkening to inky black pools. “Keep your damn mouth shut and do your job.” With that, he lets go, shattering any faith Phoenix had in him.

Honestly though, what was Phoenix expecting? A KG with a heart? No, they were all ruthless, were the kinds of men his father wanted him to be. Phoenix can be self-destructive and impulsive, but he is not a man that seeks blood and glory. Phoenix doesn’t know what kind of man he is anymore. He’s ignored so many horrible things. Can he ignore the telling bruises and bloodstains? Turn a blind eye and detach the same way Ivan just did?

What kind of man is he going to be?

A coward or a hero?

Phoenix’s knees weaken as the world begins to tilt. He’s a house of cards ready to collapse, but he can’t fold, can’t crumble to the ground, not when there is a life hanging in the balance. He must stay standing; must decide what kind of man he is willing to become.

***

It's getting late, the clock on the wall, with its thunderous ticking, reads ten past seven. Phoenix should have gone home two hours ago, he’s not paid to stay overnight, the prisoners aren’t valuable enough to warrant medical care twenty-four-seven. Phoenix’s head is killing him, each tick of the clock a clap of thunder. Gods, he wants nothing more than to go home, to collapse into the old olive-green armchair that resides by the window overlooking Mar Memorial Park.

Which is where he drinks his morning coffee and lazes on Sunday afternoons with a book and a pot of tea. Lately, the books have been left to collect dust, cups of tea replaced by glasses of wine and bourbon. He’s unravelling, the threads, frayed and brittle to begin with, have been tugged. _Yanked_ free. It’s rather unbecoming this behaviour of his. His mother would tell him to stop moaning about it, pull himself together. There would be no warmth in her voice, no real concern for what he’s going through, she would remain rigid, scarlet lips pressed into a thin line of disappointment.

He’s been down this road of sleepless nights and heavy drinking before, only there isn’t anyone left to snap him out of it. He must do so himself. The clock ticks, a thunderous clap, and Phoenix’s stomach churns, grumbling from hunger. He should eat something, or at least make a cup of tea to soothe his frayed nerves. But Phoenix can’t tear his gaze away from the sleeping boy. It hurts to look at him, yet Phoenix is compelled to stare, to see and know what has been done to him.

There’s an ache in his chest, pulsating with the throbbing of his head. What kind of man is he? The question circles in his mind, pulls him to his feet, restless energy zapping through him. Needing to move Phoenix rises on trembling legs, heading to the kitchen. Tea always calms his nerves. When he was a child, and his mother grew bored of looking after him or wanted to pursue other interests, she’d leave him in the care of his grandmother.

The memories have faded with time, but he still recalls their days spent together. Grandma Waterford was kind and gentle, smelled of white sage and sweetgrass, and had big blue eyes that shone with so much life and love. She’d read to him from her extensive collection of books, tell him tales of Mar and the Sages. She filled his head with stories, with fantasies of running off to be a sky pirate or discovering the truth of the Precursors. She told her tales over sweet tea and pastries, eyes crinkling around the edges, bony fingers making shapes in the air.

She died when Phoenix was seven, dropped dead in the middle of the night, or so he was told. After that, there weren't any more tea and pastries or tales of grand adventures. There was just an empty house, echoing with laughter, with memories of better times.

The shrill whistle of the kettle brings Phoenix back to the present, the dimly lit kitchen of the prison settling coldly around him. He pours the boiling water into a chipped ceramic mug that is nothing like the delicate china his grandmother used to serve their tea in. Phoenix rubs at the ache between his eyes. What would his grandmother say to him if she were here? He doesn’t have an answer for this, the memories of her are too faded.

He stirs in a teaspoon of honey, bought from home because the kitchen only offered sugar and imagines what he’d like her to say. She’d tell him to be brave, to think of others, not just himself. She’d say be careful, here there be monsters, but if you carry hope like a light, it’ll be enough to fight your way through the dark. She liked speaking like this, words poetic and elegant, that he remembers clearly. It didn’t always make sense, but in the end, her mind started to deteriorate. That he remembers too.

A sharp knock pulls him from the past, spinning around, he finds Ivan standing in the doorway, posture rigid and poised, a dancing marionette ready for orders. “Can I help you?” his tone is polite, bordering aloof, he won’t allow Ivan to see his anger, his betrayal. 

"Commander Erol wants to know when the prisoner will be well enough to return to his cell.”

“The _patient_ has a chest infection and won’t be well enough to return for a few days,” he replied, words taking on a sharp edge. How can Ivan stand there, uncaring, _untouched_ , by the knowledge of what is happening in this hellish place?

"I'll inform the Commander of the situation."

“Alright, then.”

There is a moment of silence, thick with tension, heavy with unspoken words. Ivan shifts, arms folding over his broad chest as a hint of _something_ flickered in his eyes. “Is there anything else I can help with you?” He wants Ivan to leave, for this stilted conversation to end.

“Look,” Ivan drags the word out, takes a hesitant step forward, “I’m sorry about what I said earlier, it’s just terrible things happen here, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Oh, so it’s okay that a teenage boy was raped?”

“No, of course not.” He’s flustered, _conflicted._ Maybe Phoenix wasn’t wrong, perhaps Ivan is different, is more than the detached, gruff exterior he presents to the world. “This is a messed-up situation, but I wasn’t lying when I said Erol will have your head if you talk.”

“So, we stay quiet?” He doesn’t think he can remain silent, the blood on his hands is getting thicker, the burden heavier.

“Silence will keep you alive,” Ivan declared, “or at the very least keep that clever tongue of yours in your head.”

“Okay.” It’s not okay, people are dying, are being _violated_ , altered by dark eco, and they should do something.

“Okay,” Ivan repeated, shifting back into the strait-laced soldier.

Phoenix expects him to leave, to disappear to Precursor’s knows where only to emerge out of the darkness with some poor battered and bleeding soul. But he stays, motionless, like a statue, but something is shifting beneath the surface. A world opening in his rich hazel eyes. “What is your job here exactly?” he finds himself asking, shrugging off the unease and matching Ivan’s stance. It’s been quite some time, but Phoenix feels a spark, a flutter of rebellion and bravado.

Ivan twitches, eyes flickering with that something again. It’s too fleeting to analyse, to give a name, though if Phoenix had to summarise it, he’d use the word humane. “Haven’t you figured that out yet?” he lets the question hang in the air, gather like a storm, dangerous and unpredictable. “I’m your spy.”

Phoenix flinches at the reveal, spark turning to ash in his stomach. Of course, of fucking course, Ivan is here to spy on him, to make sure he doesn’t run off to the Underground to inform them of the horrendous things the Baron is doing. This explains why Ivan is different from the other guards, why he lingers and asks questions, offers to help when he doesn’t know the first thing about medicine. He’s watching every move, waiting for a moment of resistance, _compassion_ to strike.

“Is that what happened to the last physician?” The words rise on their own accord, thick on his tongue. “Did you turn them in for caring?”

“No,” Ivan replied, voice taking on a dark edge like he was offended at the accusation, “one of the prisoners smashed his head into a bloody pulp.”

Phoenix shivers at the answer, stomach recoiling at the gruesome image. Could the frail boy that’s currently sleeping off a terrible fever be capable of such violence? Was that innocent face just a mask, a guise concealing a monster? Phoenix shoves the thought away, collects his tea then storms out, forcing his way by Ivan. The men he’s treated this week have only ever been scared and sick, minds failing them as death crept ever closer. Dark eco flays the mind, poisons the soul, it could cause a person to snap, to kill a man. Praxis is trying to create an army of killers, and a man as ruthless and crazed as that shouldn’t be allowed to control such dangerous things.

What kind of man would he be if he let an innocent child become a monster, a weapon to be used in a war that he didn’t start? The spark reignites, curls into a delicate flame that waits for another strike of the match, a downpour of gasoline. Phoenix is going to be brave like he was at seventeen before he was deafened by the sound of bullets and haunted by the sight of blood. Fearlessly, he walks back into the infirmary, sure of the man he’s going to become.

The courage wavers at the sight of Commander Erol, but the man isn’t waiting with a loaded gun or a pair of cuffs – he’s standing over the boy. Phoenix shivers, something inside him snapping, triggering an alarm. It wails in his head, sending icy panic racing through his veins, but the fear is not for him. It’s for the boy, whose eyes are wide open full of terror. Without hesitation, Phoenix sets the mug down on the desk, tea spilling out onto some paperwork in his haste, and storms into the adjacent room.

“What are you doing in here?”

“Just checking on the patient.” The Commander replied, tone lazy, gaze never straying from the boy.

“He needs rest,” Phoenix said, stepping closer. “He won’t be ready for visitors until tomorrow.”

Commander Erol doesn’t answer; instead, he bends down to whisper something in the boy’s ear. Phoenix can’t hear a word of it, but everything about this situation feels wrong. It takes all his willpower not to pull the Commander away, shield the boy from his twisted smile, which he flashes as he leaves. It’s a slash of white in the dark, a grin full of wicked things. It’s enough to make Phoenix shudder, stomach-turning. Erol’s presence lingers in the room, filling it with something dark and rotten.

The boy starts crying, pitiful sounds climbing up his throat, bursting into the quiet night like claws through flesh. Phoenix rushes to him, pinning his thrashing body against the bed. Tears stream down his face and wounds reopen as he strains against the cuffs. The mangled screams ricochet off the walls, summoning Ivan, who comes racing into the room like he’s running from a Metal Head.

“What the hell happened?”

Phoenix doesn’t answer, can’t find his voice, it’s trapped somewhere beneath the realisation. It was the Commander who violated the boy, who left the hand-shaped bruises, the bite marks. It had to be, there was no other explanation for this reaction. And the Commander's grin, the glint in his eyes, it was sadistic. Vicious. Precursors, he feels sick. The kid’s thrashing turns sluggish, eyes rolling back in his head as he succumbs to the pain. Phoenix steps back, trembling violently, gasping in ragged breaths to quell the rising nausea.

“Phoenix, are you okay?”

No, he’s not okay, he’s far from it. He feels faint, is swaying, vision blurring, turning red. There is a violent urge awakening deep within, twisted and raw, leaving him trembling, nostrils flaring, teeth clenching. He’s boiling over, ready to snap, break, scream. Through the red haze, he is distantly aware of Ivan pulling him from the kid's bedside. Ivan forces him into a chair, placing a mug of tea into his quivering hands. 

“Fuck!” he throws the mug against the ground, white ceramic shattering into sharp pieces. “Fuck!”

“Phoenix hold it together,” Ivan orders, gripping his jaw fiercely between his fingers. “Tell me what happened?”

“It’s nothing.” He pulls away from the iron-like grip, hand pressing to where Ivan’s fingers dug in. There’s no point telling Ivan, he’ll only run off to inform the Commander. “It’s just been a shitty day.”

“That wasn’t nothing.” Ivan’s tone is imploring, gaze softening.

Phoenix remains stubbornly silent, mind anything but.

“You should get some sleep,” Ivan says after a few tense moments. “I’ll watch the patient.”

Phoenix shakes his head, he can’t leave the kid alone, he’s not safe, not even here.

“I won’t hurt him,” Ivan assured, voice gentle. “I promise you; I won’t hurt him.”

“But you are hurting him.” He declared. “By ignoring what’s happened to him, _we_ are hurting him.”

Ivan sighs wearily, scrubbing a hand over his face as he tilts his chin skyward like he’s asking the Precursors for guidance. The clock ticks, tea dries on the floor, and after a tense pause, Ivan lowers his head, pinning Phoenix in place with such intensity it takes his breath away.

“Can I ask you something?”

Phoenix hesitates, chewing on the words. He doesn't like where this is going but he asks anyway. "What do you want to know?

"Are you willing to face death or imprisonment for a boy you don't even know?" 

Phoenix is taken aback by the question, worried it’s a trick, that at any moment Ivan will drag him off to some dark, cobweb riddled cell. But there is something in his eyes, in the way he stands, slouched, burdened, that tells Phoenix this isn’t the case. Ivan is not like the others, though he’s tried to be, whatever crimes he’s committed in the past have come home to rest. Ivan is cutting his strings, is saying, between the spaces of his words, I’m here to help.

Phoenix turns his attention to the window, gazing through at the slumbering boy. He looks so young, so vulnerable. This kid has his entire life in front of him, and maybe it’s already too late for him, the dark eco could kill him any day now, but _perhaps_ there is still hope, still a chance for a future. It will be a rough one, will be darkened by the pain and horrors endured in this hellish place, but he deserves a fighting chance. Phoenix can sense that he’s strong, that he'll be okay if they can just get him somewhere safe.

Determination strikes the final match, sparking confidence and courage that Phoenix hasn't felt in years. "Yes," he replied, voice full of unwavering conviction. He’s going to be brave, to step once more into the fray. He’s going to be a good man even if it kills him. One question remains, though: What kind of man is Ivan? Is he the aloof, uncaring Krimzon Guard or a man with a heart? Returning his fiery gaze to Ivan’s, he asks without hesitation, “are you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun bringing Phoenix to life :D and Ivan's been interesting to write too. I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter and I'll see you next Sunday for chapter 3


	3. Sharp Objects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remembering Sandover used to be effortless, Jak could sink into the past, letting sun-drenched days of adventure and relaxation carry him away. Not so long ago, Jak dreamt of sandcastles and waves, of days spent collecting power cells and Precursor relics to give Keira for her latest inventions. Daxter’s voice used to be loud and cheerful in his head, would tell Jak tales so he could fall asleep at night, now his voice is thin, stories told in paling fragments. Jak aches for home, for his family and friends, clutches desperately to their memories, but, in the end, they are ripped away, leaving Jak in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Referenced non-con

**~~Jak~~**

Jak’s been floating in the darkness for hours, maybe even centuries, it stretches out in every direction. Sometimes it’s broken by memories, punctured by light and blurred faces. Voices come and go, words sounding far away, sentences fragmented. Jak stays in the dark, gives chase to the memories passing by like stars shooting through the night sky. If he’s lucky, if he’s fast enough, he’ll catch a memory, and it will unfold around him, bathing him in warm daylight or the cold light of the moon.

Remembering Sandover used to be effortless, Jak could sink into the past, letting sun-drenched days of adventure and relaxation carry him away. Not so long ago, Jak dreamt of sandcastles and waves, of days spent collecting power cells and Precursor relics to give Keira for her latest inventions. Daxter’s voice used to be loud and cheerful in his head, would tell Jak tales so he could fall asleep at night, now his voice is thin, stories told in paling fragments. Jak aches for home, for his family and friends, clutches desperately to their memories, but, in the end, they are ripped away, leaving Jak in the dark.

Until it shifts, thins like fog clearing over the ocean, freeing Jak of its hold. He feels himself wake little by little, the darkness receding to the red-black of closed eyelids. Eyes that must not open, not until Jak is sure it is safe to do so. Erol could be close, is always lingering somewhere, with that wicked smile and heartless gold eyes. Letting his other senses take over, Jak sniffs the air, it doesn’t smell of sweaty sheets that are stained with blood and bad memories, it smells clean, like citrus and disinfectant. The mattress doesn’t squeak and rattle when he moves, the covers aren’t threadbare and itchy.

Cracking open an eye, just a sliver, not enough to catch someone’s attention, Jak begins piecing together his new surroundings. It’s dark, but not the same black darkness of his cell. The room feels empty, the air undisturbed, it’s enough assurance to encourage Jak to fully open his eyes. The darkness gives way to an eerily lit room, the fluorescent light tints the walls a sickly green hue, making it feel surreal and uninviting. Like the room, Jak woke in one-hundred-and fifty-eight days ago.

At least there aren’t any guards standing around, waiting eagerly for Jak to misbehave so they can hit him, and Erol isn’t hovering in the dark, ready to tag him like yakcow heading for slaughter. Jak’s fingers twitch, the urge to tug and tear at the tag rising within. It’s an itch that needs scratching, a thorn that needs pulling out. Finger curl and flex, hand moving on its own accord, desperate to remove the foreign object, even though every prior attempt has failed.

Jak’s right wrist catches, the familiar sound of metal scraping on metal ringing in the air. Looking down, Jak discovers he’s cuffed to the metal railing of the bed. Turning his gaze to the left, he finds a matching cuff, only someone has shoved a sharp object into this hand. He can’t see the needle beneath the white gauze, but he can feel it in his skin, in his vein. Jak follows the plastic tube up, up, up to the strange mechanical machine, this is how Erol and Praxis once _poisoned_ him with dark eco. 

Jak scrunches his eyes against the memory, breath hitching with the rush of panic that burns through his lungs like inhaled smoke. Exhaling, Jak opens his eyes, focusing on the liquid inside the bags. One is clear, like water, the other is filled with a luminous green that Jak instantly recognises as green eco. He tastes it in the back of his throat, sweet like chewing on grass, like taking in a deep breath of air after it rains. It whispers through him, like the feeling of a long-forgotten embrace, a faint warmth that isn’t enough to thaw the ever-present chill from his bones.

Jak’s throat tightens as he clutches onto the sensation, desperate for anything that feels like home, like safety. The feeling is ripped away all too soon by the sound of approaching footsteps. Gritting his teeth in preparation, Jak waits, analysing the tall man as he approaches. He’s wearing a white coat; the recognition sounds warning bells, rendering any other feature or detail unimportant. The men in white coats always come with malice, with sharp needles or new ways to force dark eco into his body. 

This isn’t the usual treatment room, though, those are made of cold, shiny steel and filled with sharp instruments. They want to know how Jak works, what makes him capable of channelling eco. He’s not sure if they’ve figured it out yet, it’s been seventeen days since he was last strapped to the metal table and dissected like a frog. Six and a half days later Erol came for him, not in the dead of night, like he did last night, but during the day, and led him to a new room of horror.

Precursor knows what this man has install for him.

Jak narrows his eyes, challenging the physician to come closer, threatening to do harm if he does. The man falters, looking for a fraction of a second like he’ll turn tail and run. But then his expression softens, eyes glimmering with something akin to sympathy. Jak thinks he’s imagining things, no one has treated him with an ounce of kindness since he woke in this place. There has been no compassion or warmth, only cruelty and violence.

“How are you feeling?” the man asked, his concern sounding surprisingly genuine. “Right, you can’t speak.” He pats at the pockets of the white coat, reaching into the top left one to retrieve a notepad and pen. “Here, this should do the trick.” The man closes the distance between them, uncuffing Jak’s right hand than pressing the pen into his palm. “I’m Phoenix by the way.” He flashes a smile, the charm not fooling Jak. “I’m the new physician.”

This is an act, a trick. A test. They are always testing him. Testing to see how strong he is, how well he can swim, how much pain can he endure before passing out. Creating a weapon takes work, Erol says, they need to know if he’s worthy. If he’s strong enough to survive what is to come. Praxis wants him to be merciless, indestructible killing machine. Erol wants him to be obedient, to be a good boy. Be worthy of this gift.

What does this man want from him?

Jak glances down at the fine-tipped pen clutched in his freed hand, perhaps this is an opportunity to escape. Jak could jam the pen into the physician’s eye, or maybe he’d go for the carotid artery, let him bleed out. _Watch_ him bleed out. The violent impulse tears through Jak, leaving him sick to the stomach. The feeling of bloodthirsty rage is foreign and frightening. He doesn’t like that these violent thoughts keep happening, it’s one thing to attack a guard while attempting to escape or to throw a punch in self-defence, but to be plagued by such vicious urges is unsettling.

He’s not a killer, but he’s not much of a hero anymore either. He’s teetering on the edge of the abyss, of madness. It’s the dark eco, he tells himself, it distorts the mind, corrupts the soul until all that’s left is a monstrous version of oneself. Jak will not give in to the wicked desires. He will not be Praxis’s weapon, will not let the dark eco control and twist him the way it did Gol and Maia. Fuelled by guilt, by the need to be stronger than the violent impulses, he scrawls his name across the page.

 _Jak_. His name is Jak, and it’s the only thing that hasn’t been taken from him. Regret floods his veins with ice, wraps like a fist around his heart as the weight of what he just revealed crashes into him. He should have given a false name, should have broken the pen in half, staining his hand blue, but he can’t think clearly, mind dulled by pain and dense with fog. There’s no undoing this. His name is already leaving the man’s mouth.

“Jak,” the man - Phoenix - says, lips curling into a gentle smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Jak narrows his eyes, waiting for the switch, for the needles and torture devices to be rolled out. Phoenix’s smile wavers, brows furrowing as he studies Jak, but he doesn’t have the same malevolent glint in his eyes as Erol, or the eager, detached air of the other scientists.

“Are you in any pain?”

The question takes Jak by surprise, no one cares about his discomfort, no one asks if he’s cold or close to going mad from isolation. His screams fall on deaf ears, tears ignored or sometimes enjoyed. But this man is asking, is waiting, _wanting_ an answer. The answer is yes, which Jak scribbles below his name. Everything hurts. His bones ache, his skin burns, his insides feel torn and twisted. Pain is a constant, a reminder that he is, despite everything that’s happened to him, still alive. That’s got to count for something, right? Almost everyone else is dead, there must be a reason he’s still alive.

There has to be. Otherwise, all this suffering will be for nothing.

“How’s the pain on a scale from one to ten,” he continued, “ten being the worst.”

Can pain be measured by numbers? Can he condense the throbbing in his head, the ache of bruises, the sting of cuts and torn flesh into one number? He’ll have to try. Shakily he draws a six, though maybe it should have been a seven, it’s hard to pinpoint the pain, it seems to move through him in waves. It ebbs and flows like the violent thoughts, like the hopelessness, like the fleeting desire to end his life. While there is still a shred of hope burning in his veins, Jak won’t give up.

He fights. _He endures._

“I’ll give you something to help with that,” the physician said, the friendly smile returning to his face, eyes crinkling around the edges. “If that’s alright with you?”

Jak hesitates, mind sluggishly debating the man’s offer for pain relief. A choice is something that’s never been offered here, most of the time he’s haphazardly healed by green eco and sent back to his cell in blood-stained clothes. Erol and the scientist don’t care about the pain, the _agony_ he’s left in, they just need him alive.

Narrowing his eyes, Jak studies the physician, taking in his sophisticated yet easy-going appearance, his warm and benevolent presence. So far, despite the white coat, this man seems trustworthy. He, Phoenix, looks akin to a traveller who’d pass through Sandover, bringing tales and trade. Deciding to take a chance, Jak scribbles a yes onto the notepad – He’d like for the pain to stop, to no longer feel the echo of horrible things done to him.

“Alright, I’ll be back in a moment.”

Jak watches Phoenix leave, wondering if dreaming or hallucination, it wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. It’s easy to lose oneself in a world of imagination. Jak spends hours lying on the sand, watching clouds streak lilac through the glowing sky. One must learn to detach themselves in a place like this. These bones cannot hold him, this flesh is not his – hideaway, retreat, not his body, not his body, _not his body_.

Something cold and sharp twists inside, snatching the air from his lungs. The room tilts and wilts, ears ringing as the frigid water rises, choking him. Jak is an exceptional swimmer, can hold his breath for seven minutes and outswim every other kid in the village. Jak doesn’t know what it would feel like to drown, but he imagines it would feel something like this. Only it’s not water choking him but something else, something that doesn’t have a form or name.

It’s sensations and memories, twinning and coiling around him, _through him_. Erol’s voice echoes in his head, hot breath whispering against his face, drying the tears he didn’t realise he was shedding. Smooth, intrusive fingers skim over his neck, pressing firmly at the bruises ringing his throat. Gasping, Jak tilts his head back, hand desperately clawing at the invisible fingers tightening around his throat. This isn’t real. Erol isn’t here. Not right now.

Not here.

 _He’s_ not here.

It’s a trick of the light, a slip of the mind. The voice calling to Jak is different, their touch gentle, almost comforting. Slowly the room stops spinning, air refiling burning lungs like water extinguishing a fire. Little by little, the coldness recedes, letting clarity trickle back in. Jak lets out a shaky breath, body sagging in exhaustion. Phoenix’s face comes into focus, the friendly smile gone, replaced by a deep frown. For a moment, Jak thinks the physician is angry, is used to making people mad by merely failing to do what they want, though he can’t control the dark eco any more than they can. It’s not anger on the man’s face, though, or disappointment – it’s raw and honest concern. It brings a fresh wave of tears to Jak’s eyes, has him turning away, so Phoenix can’t see them fall - see him weak.

“Hey, it’s okay, I won’t hurt you,” he assured, tone gentle, like he was talking to a child who’d woken frighten from a nightmare, not a prisoner who was unworthy of care. “Just take a few deep breaths. You’re safe.”

Safe? He’s not safe, not here, _not anywhere_.

“Here-” Phoenix reaches across him, unlocking the other cuff, “-Is that better?”

Jak cradles his freed hand against his chest, resting it over his pounding heart. He takes a deep breath, then another, panic gradually releasing its grip. Fatigue creeps back in, eyes growing heavy as whatever substance Phoenix put in the IV courses through his veins.

“Get some rest, Jak,” he said, encouraging him to lie back down. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

Panic spikes at the thought of being left alone in this strange new place. Jak isn’t sure this man is trustworthy, yet he wants him to stay, to be a barricade between him and everyone else who wishes to cause him harm. Phoenix must sense his distress because he sighs through a gentle smile, then takes a seat on the edge of the bed.

“Have you ever heard the Heroic Tales of Mar?”

Jak shakes his head, no, but his interest is piqued. 

“Well, whenever I couldn’t sleep at night, my grandmother would read to me,” Phoenix revealed. “She’d tell me stories about the Precursors and the Sage’s, but it was Mar’s stories that captivated me the most.” He continued, lips curling into a wistful smile, giving Jak the impression Phoenix’s grandmother wasn’t around anymore. “Have you really never heard of him?”

Jak shakes his head again, no, he has not, but he’s not from here, wherever here is.

“Well, then, we should start at the beginning.” Phoenix leant back, settling in like they were friends sitting around a campfire, not strangers brought together in the most unfortunate circumstances.

Phoenix begins his tale, voice full of admiration and passion, the words washing over Jak the way Samos’s once did. It’s strangely comforting listening to this strange man speak. It’s soothing, unlike when Erol talked to him, at him, voice full of poison. The steady cadence of his voice has Jak’s eyes fluttering closed, body relaxing as he sinks into the mattress that doesn’t squeak when he moves, falling asleep under covers that aren’t stained with blood and bad memories.

**~~Phoenix~~**

Phoenix wakes with a start, chased from sleep by a jolt of fear, the tail end of a nightmare clinging to his sweat-soaked skin. He lifts a shaky hand, pressing it against the space above his heart, feeling the frantic beats beneath it. He inhales deeply, chest rising and falling, lungs burning as they expel the frigid fire. He might be accustomed to the aftermath of nightmares, but that doesn’t make enduring them any less difficult. It takes several minutes for his pounding heart to settle into a steady rhythm, for fear to release its cold grip on him.

Fatigue clings to him, body begging for more rest, but his mind is awake, spinning thoughts unravelling the cobwebs of sleep. There’s no point laying here, in replaying the nightmare, he knows better than to dwell on them. Throwing off the covers, Phoenix rises, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the pale light of dawn before standing. Across the room, he can make out the shape of Jak’s body, curled up impossibly small under the covers.

He’d fallen asleep not long after Phoenix began his tale, though he’d woken twice more during the night, limbs thrashing as he fought off invisible assailants, body shivering as his fever spiked. Phoenix steps closer, quietly, carefully, checking Jak’s forehead for any lingering traces of warmth, but his skin has cooled, no longer clammy from sweat. Stable for now, he decides to let Jak sleep awhile longer before waking him to check his vitals. 

Yawning, Phoenix stumbles from the room, trudging his way to the kitchen in desperate need of caffeine. Reality feels sharp this morning like the wool has finally fallen away from his eyes, even if his lids feel heavy and gritty from lack of sleep. For years he thought the spark of rebellion was gone, was left abandoned with the bodies and blood on the streets, stomped out by fear. It had never truly left him though, it remained hidden away, dormant, until now. As terrifying, _as dangerous_ as it would be, he was going to reach inside and awaken that brave, bold seventeen-year-old and march once more into the fray.

This time though, he would not make a sign and join a doomed protest. This time he is going to make a difference. He will free Jak. Though he can’t do it alone. He needs help – help from the only person he trusts in this Godforsaken place. Ivan, his spy, the man who could turn him over at any moment is the only chance Phoenix has of pulling this off. Once off this island, Phoenix the Underground will protect them, will stash them in a safe house or smuggle them outside the city to one of the small farming villages.

But then what? Praxis will send the Krimzon Guard after them; they will knock on every door, tear through the streets like a hurricane until Jak is found. And if they are caught Jak will be returned to this hellish place, and Phoenix will end up another body strung up in the Red Square. Coffee sloshes onto the floor, heart squeezing in his chest as the room tilts and wilts for a few dizzying moments. Phoenix braces his hands on the benchtop, planting his feet firmly on the ground as he rides out the wave of panic.

He’s okay, everything will be _okay_. The Underground has been in hiding for years, are so good at it that most people believe they are just rumours, _whispers_. Praxis denies the exitance of resistance, and if he can’t, if the whispers get too loud, he puts on a show. Citizens from all sectors of Haven are invited to the Red Square, where they are witness to hangings. Sometimes, when Praxis is feeling particularly ruthless, there will be a stoning. Fortunately – not that there’s anything fortunate about living under the Baron’s reign of terror – there hasn’t been a one of those in quite some time.

Phoenix’s fingers flex on the benchtop, heart skipping a beat at the thought of being surrounded by an angry mob, their fists raised, fingers clenching hard-edged stones. It would be a slow and agonising death, unless someone took mercy on him, aimed at his head, plunging him into eternal darkness. If he falters… if he fails, then this will end in blood, in a violent death. But he’s willing to make the sacrifice, to take the risk. For himself. For Jak, who didn’t ask for any this.

Letting go of fear, embracing courage, Phoenix straightens, determination settling like fire beneath his skin. Coffee in hand, he turns around, taking in the tiny room, tracing the space Ivan stood last night, Phoenix’s conversation hanging in the air: _Are you?_ Never had two words been so loaded. Ivan was paralysed by them, rendered speechless. Silence, tense and thick, stretched between them. Phoenix felt his chest tighten; lungs squeezed by the icy hands of fear. Ivan had only moments ago confessed to being a spy, _his_ spy, he was a knife aimed right at Phoenix’s throat, and yet he dared to challenge him. Dared him to turn against the Baron, against his Commander and fellow comrades.

 _Dared_ Ivan to choose him.

Ivan could have ended him right there, fired one shot right between his eyes, staining the beige walls red. Ivan, mysterious and dangerous Ivan, came back to life, dark lashes fluttering and chest heaving with an unsteady breath. ‘I need to think about,’ he’d said, expression unreadable, eyes cold and dark as pond stones. ‘I won’t say anything to anyone.’ With that, he left, presumably gone home for the evening, or to a bar to drink top-shelf liquor and ponder if helping two strangers was worth his life.

Whatever choice Ivan makes is out of Phoenix’s hands, he can only hope Ivan will return, that he’ll stay true to his word and reveal none of this to Erol and Praxis. In the meantime, standing here, playing a game of tug of war between fear and bravery is a waste of time. The last strings of fear sever, giving Phoenix the strength to move, to walk without fear from the shadowy corner of the kitchen, out into the artificially bright hallway.

Returning to the stuffy office, he sets his mug down on a stack of paperwork, gaze lifting to the window, to Jak. He has an urge to tell Jak of his plans, but he doesn’t want to give the kid hope until he is confident there is some to give. Firstly, he must convince Ivan to help, then he’ll need to find someone from the Underground who’s willing to offer them protection after their escape. There is someone, a _someone_ who used to be _something_ to him, that he can seek out. He doesn’t know if they still live at the same address, but he does recall the bars they used to frequent.

Right now, Phoenix must sideline his plans for a prison escape and focus on Jak. There will be no rescue needed if Jak succumbs to his infections or Precursor forbid, the dark eco. In all honesty, it’s a miracle Jak is still alive, dark eco is as aggressive as cancer, devouring and destroying everything it touches. Yet Jak lives, surely there must be a reason for this. When Phoenix was young, he believed in Gods and fables, now, in the harsh, blood-soaked light of reality, it’s hard to believe in such things.

History books say there were once sages and gods, now there are just monsters in the shape of men. Phoenix reigns in the wild rush of thoughts, taking a moment to steady himself. Exhaling, he steps into the infirmary, paying close attention to his surrounding as he walks towards the window, pausing to feel the fabric of the curtains against his fingertips, the warmth of the sun on his face as he pulls them open.

Grounded, he walks the short distance back to Jak’s bedside, resuming the role of caregiver. Jak twitches in his sleep, limbs trashing out, throwing off the covers as a dream grips him from the other side. Phoenix cautiously and gently nudges him awake, prepared for another violent reaction. Jak jolts upright, scrambling away from the touch, almost falling off the bed in his haste. Phoenix grabs him before he tips over the edge. Panicked, Jak struggles, thrashing weakly, Phoenix let’s go, stepping back to give him space. He’s not trained to deal with trauma patients, there is a special kind of care victims of sexual assault need and he’s so far from it.

He must try, though.

“Jak, hey, shh, it’s okay, it’s just me.” He keeps his tone soft; words steady like a stream. “It’s Phoenix, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Clarity returns slowly to Jak’s stormy blue eyes, fright and fight burning out; leaving him to collapse against the headboard. Deflated, Jak draws his knees to his chest, arms wrapping tightly around them, creating a barricade. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Phoenix backs up another step, hip bumping into the empty bed behind him. “Are you alright?”

Jak stares up through pale lashes, expression carefully blank. He nods once, a sharp incline of his head.

“Can I get you anything?”

Jak’s eyes narrow, head moving slightly in answer: No.

“Okay, well then-” He sits down on the edge of the bed “-would it be all right if I examine you?” Jak’s eyes widen, body stiffening in fear. “There’s no hurry. I’ll wait until you’re ready.” Phoenix relaxes his posture, indicating there’s no urgency, no punishment for resistance. “I won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with,” he adds, making sure Jak understands that he has a choice, a voice even if he can’t physically speak.

Jak holds Phoenix gaze, stare challenging despite the tears. A hush falls between them, stretching out as Jak gathers himself, fear fading, replaced by a mask of unremarkable strength. Jak nods firmly, body uncurling in silent permission, the barricade lowering in a small sign of trust.

“Thank you.” Phoenix’s rises, taking hold of the delicate thread of trust stretching out between them, knowing it will need nurturing, need fanning into a flame. “If you want me to stop, at any time, I will, okay?”

The corner of Jak’s mouth twitches, lips forming a ghost of a smile. It’s not much, but it’s a start, it a step in the right direction.

**~~~~~~~~~~**

It’s almost evening when the thud of heavy footsteps startle Phoenix from the edge of sleep. His head jerks up from where it was pillowed on the desk, the abrupt motion pinching a nerve in his neck. Wincing, he rubs at the sore spot, feeling a headache crawl through his skull, a faint whisper that if not taken care of would grow into a roar. Bleary-eyed, he reaches into the desk drawer, retrieving the green bottle of pills, then swallowing one with a mouthful of lukewarm tea.

Outside the footsteps draw closer, the sound familiar. Tensing, Phoenix swivels around, gaze landing on Ivan, who stands in the doorway, the slouched posture offering a sliver of relief. Phoenix’s foolish heart stutters; hope flickering beneath the thin layer of fear. Ivan has returned. He’s returned without cuffs or wrath, looking _dreadful,_ the way one does after spending all night at the bottom of a bottle, tearing themselves apart. Perhaps Phoenix is projecting though, is seeing what he wants to see, what he desperately _needs_ to see.

“You look like shit,” Phoenix remarked, keeping his tone level, expression neutral. “Rough night?”

Ivan rolled his bloodshot eyes, firing back with no real heat, “you don’t look so put together either, hotshot.”

Phoenix bits his tongue, holding back a grin as relief stirs within. He’s testing the waters, waiting for the latch of sharp teeth, the assault of a tidal wave. Phoenix waits, suspended in silence, the air taught like a pulled bowstring. Ivan shuffles awkwardly, arms crossing tightly over his chest, wrinkling the fabric of his midnight blue trench coat. It’s strange to see Ivan out of uniform, everyday garments suit him far better than the bulky Krimson Guard armour. 

“Quit staring,” Ivan snapped, “you’re making me self-conscious.”

“I can’t help it.” It’s dangerous to feel this way, to venture deeper into these dark, treacherous waters, but Phoenix can’t help himself. “I’ve never seen you out of your uniform before.”

“Your charm doesn’t work on me, Phoenix,” he said, but the smile on his lips says otherwise.

This banter, this gentle give and take should assure Phoenix, should spark the embers of hope, but the dull ache in his head, in his chest, shatters the illusion. He’s still in deep waters, and the safety of shore is not yet in sight. “Then why are you here?” He demanded, chest constricting as the tension swells, a storm gathering over troubled seas.

The smile slips from Ivan’s lips, posture stiffening as the spell breaks. “I spent all night thinking about you… about _this –_ ” he sweeps his arms out, gesturing at the office and the secrets it hides, at the infirmary where Jak lies – “About the person, I’ve become.” Absentmindedly he pulls a gold link chain out from beneath the collar of his shirt, attached to the end is the symbol of the Precursors. Phoenix never picked Iven for a spiritual man. “You know, I never wanted to join the guard,” he drops his gaze to the pendent, turning it over and over in his hands, “but my father passed away when I was sixteen, leaving me to take care of my mother and little sister.”

He shakes his head, sighing heavily. “I don’t really know why I’m telling you this.” Fingers tighten around the pendent, clutching it like a lifeline. “Maybe it’s because I want you to know that I wasn’t always like this.” At last, he looks up, face twisted in misery. “That I had no other choice, my family needed protecting, they needed income and joining the KG offered both.” The pendant slips from his fingers, landing in the space between his lungs. “I knew the KG were ruthless, that I’d be tasked with doing unthinkable things, but I never expected anything like this.”

“I had to stop caring. I had to see the prisoners as less than human, it was the only way to make it through the day.” He gravitas towards Phoenix, walls coming down as his past tumbles out, haunting and harrowing. “I thought about going to the Underground and telling them about Praxis’s attempts to create a dark eco-warrior, but I knew that if I did… if I betrayed the Baron, it wouldn’t just be me they’d hang in the Red Square.” His voice cracks, dark eyes shimmering with despair. “He’d kill my family too.”

“Ivan… I’m sorry.” Is all Phoenix can say, which isn’t enough, not while Ivan is shedding his armour, laying his vulnerabilities down for Phoenix to see, to handle. “I didn’t realise how much was at stake for you.” Taking a chance, hoping that he’d read their chemistry right, as fickle and charged as it was, Phoenix takes Ivan’s calloused hand into his own.

“Last night, I was certain I wouldn’t help you.” Ivan looked down at their hands, fingers lacing through Phoenix’s. “But as I was wandering the streets, in a drunken haze, I started thinking about my little sister-” his voice catches “-about how devastated our mother would be if Praxis took her from us.” Ivan glances towards the window, eyes tearing up. “That kid is someone’s son and if I leave him here to die or worse, then what kind of man am I?”

“A man who’s trying to protect his family.” Phoenix can see the answer coming, breath stalling in his lungs as his heart beats like a war drum. It’s the answer he wanted, _needed,_ but he didn’t realise it would cost Ivan so much.

“I appreciate you trying to let me off the hook.” He squeezes Phoenix’s fingers. “My mother and sister would never forgive me if they knew half the things I’ve done, and I know there is no forgiving or forgetting my sins,” he straightens, chest expending to exhale a shaky breath, “but this is my chance to do something right.” He holds Phoenix’s gaze, voice unwavering. “So, to answer your question, yes… yes, I am willing to risk my life for this kid.”

Relief rushes over Phoenix, stealing the air from his lungs, leaving him stunned. “Well then,” his tongue felt heavy, head dizzy from breathlessness, “I guess we better come up with a foolproof escape plan.”

The corner of Ivan’s mouth curled upward, the faint smile brightening his handsome face. “I’ll handle the prison escape; you get to find the Underground and organise our protection.”

“I think I can manage that,” he assured, returning the smile. “I can imagine you asking around for members of the Underground wouldn’t go so well.”

“Yeah, there’s more than one reason Praxis marks us.” His voice takes on a sharp edge, eyes darkening with something mournful.

“You’re not his Ivan,” Phoenix lifts their clasped hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of Ivan’s palm, “don’t let those marks tell you otherwise.”

Ivan looks up, hazel eyes burning with desire. Leaning forward, Ivan cups Phoenix’s chin in the crock of his fingers, lips meeting in a cautious kiss that quickly turns bold. There is nothing romantic or soft about their kiss, it’s fervent and desperate, like gulping air after being held underwater too long. The gentleness of before is gone, fingers are tugging at hair, at clothing, bodies pressing close, quivering, and rutting. Phoenix has craved this for so long, has dreamt and fantasied about what it would feel like to come apart under Ivan.

He barely has enough sense left to lead them into another room, if he were in his right mind, not fevered from lust and fear, he never would have done this. He shouldn’t leave a patient unattended, shouldn’t be sinking onto his knees for the man who proclaimed to be his spy. Sorrow and desperation cling to them, mistakes and tragedies fuelling their yarning. They stumble and fall, sink into each, devour and thrill. A silent pact is made between them, woven together in the sweep of tongues and frantic caress of fingertips. Ivan devotes himself to Phoenix, to this crazy, dangerous path, and Phoenix takes hold of it, feeling it bring warmth back to the frozen parts of his heart.

On the brink of chaos, they find bliss, they disregard rules and caution and tip right over, plummeting into a world unknown.


	4. Proceed with Caution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phoenix inhales sharply, mind spinning in renewed horror. Looking up and over Jak’s crumpled frame, Phoenix takes in the reinforced door, eyes sweeping over the streaks of blood that run silver indentations across the stainless steel. It appears Ivan’s concern was not unwarranted, though he cannot fathom how Jak’s blunt nails could cause such damage. But Jak is not a normal teenage boy. He’s a myth made into flesh and bone, a survivor of the impossible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mentions of past non-con, medical procedures and blood

**~~Phoenix~~**

Phoenix wakes with a start in an unfamiliar dark room, mind sifting through the cobwebs in search of the reason he has fallen into a bed that is not his own. There is a naked body curled around his, heavy limps pinning him in place. Warm breath ghosts over the nape of his neck, trailing over love bitten skin, stirring awake pleasant memories. Tension ebbs from his slightly sore frame, heart rating calming as he sinks into Ivan’s warmth.

Content, Phoenix lets tired eyes flutter closed, matching his breath to the steady rise and fall of Ivan’s. He's drifting in twilight when a thunderous bang rips him from sleeps edge, body forcefully jolting upright. Blindly Phoenix searches in the dark for his clothes, to panicked to think about switching on the light. Dressed in garments that don’t feel quite like his own, he stumbles through the room, out into the fluorescent-lit hallway.

His fear riddled mind anticipates a squadron of guards attempting to break in, ready to drag him and Ivan to the Commander for execution. The Krimzon Guards have no need to knock down this door, this hellish place is theirs, is a maze of spies and killers and Phoenix let himself get swept away. The panic, however, at least for tonight, is unwarranted – at the end of the hall, slumped on the ground like a broken doll, is Jak. Relief clashes with the ache in Phoenix’s chest, the sharp pang scattering the last tendrils of sleep.

“Phoenix,” Ivan hisses, strong hands attempting to tug him back, “be careful.”

Phoenix shoots an irritated glance over his shoulder, shrugging off Ivan’s concern. Still, he does slow his steps, moving cautiously towards Jak so he doesn’t startle him. Phoenix lowers himself to the ground, searching Jak for injuries. There are smears of blood on the floor, droplets of red drying on the flimsy gown covering Jak’s shivering frame. At first, Phoenix thinks the source of the bleeding is from the pinprick hole in Jak’s hand, where the IV was torn from his veins, but then he notices the broken and bloodied fingernails. 

Phoenix inhales sharply, mind spinning in renewed horror. Looking up and over Jak’s crumpled frame, Phoenix takes in the reinforced door, eyes sweeping over the streaks of blood that run silver indentations across the stainless steel. It appears Ivan’s concern was not unwarranted, though he cannot fathom how Jak’s blunt nails could cause such damage. But Jak is not a normal teenage boy. He’s a myth made into flesh and bone, a survivor of the impossible.

Swallowing thickly, forcing down the trickle of fear, Phoenix forces himself into action. He is a physician for Precursor's sake, and his patient is injured and frightened, and he's just sitting here staring at the door like it will offer insight into what transpired. Tentatively, he reaches out, fingers brushing lightly over Jak’s chilled skin, the boy’s head jerks up, wild, frantic gaze peering at him through tangled hair.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Phoenix reassured, though he knows nothing is okay for this kid, nothings been remotely okay for him in God knows how long. “I won’t hurt you.” Kindness is all he can offer, that and temporary safety. “It’s alright, you’re safe here.”

Jak shakes his head, eyes flickering to the space over his shoulder.

“Ivan.” Phoenix turned around, only now noticing that he’s moved closer, is hovering over them like an ominous storm cloud, eyeing Jak with distrust. “I’ve got this handled,” he said sternly. “Why don’t you go put the kettle on?”

“What?” He growled, planting his feet firmly on the ground. “I’m not leaving you alone with him.” He gestures to the blood-streaked door, the look of panic flickering across his face reminding Phoenix that he found the last physician dead, skull caved in. All Ivan can see is a potential monster, not a scared boy in need of treatment and comfort.

“Ivan,” he says again, voice leaving no room for argument, “go to the kitchen, please.”

Ivan lingers a moment longer, agitation, apprehension, playing across his face. “Fine,” he mutters. “Yell if you need me.” With one last wary look, Ivan walks away, disappearing into the kitchen.

Without wasting another minute, Phoenix turns back to Jak, offering him a tired smile. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

Jak doesn’t resist, doesn’t fuss, or pull away, rising without prompting, allowing Phoenix to guide him back to the infirmary. There are droplets of blood on the floor, like breadcrumbs, trailing to the bed, to where Jak's torn out IV lays on the ground. Guilt twists in Phoenix’s stomach, this is his fault, he shouldn't have left Jak alone. It's his job to take care of him, but like usual, he tossed his responsibilities to the wind and fell into bed with a distraction.

No, Ivan is more than a distraction. He means _something_ to Phoenix, something more than a one-night stand. Something that has yet to be given a name. Still, it wasn't okay that he left Jak alone. He's supposed to be building a solid foundation between them. Getting Jak to trust him, _them_ isn't going to be easy, and he’s already fucked up. If Phoenix wants to get Jak out of here, then he _needs_ to do better. He needs to _be_ better.

“I’m sorry,” he said, settling Jak on the edge of the bed. “I shouldn’t have left you alone.” He takes hold of Jak’s bloodied hand, examining the ripped fingertips. “I understand that you don’t trust Ivan or me.” He looks up to meet Jak’s eyes, they are dull, blank orbs gazing into the void. It’s disconcerting, like the lifeless eyes of a china doll. Jak has retreated deep into his mind, no longer able to process the cruel world around him.

Phoenix heart breaks a little more, a jagged piece falling away to lodge painfully in his stomach, which churns with unease. The unpleasant sensation spreads throughout him like early morning frost, lungs constricting against the coldness, hands faltering in protest. It doesn’t feel right to touch Jak while he’s like this. It feels like an invasion, a violation. Phoenix shakes the thought away, he’s done this before, while Jak was in and out of consciousness, spent over an hour cleaning wounds, treating injuries in intimate places and cataloguing bruises.

At least Jak hadn’t been awake for that uncomfortable session of poking and prodding. Phoenix can only imagine the panic it would have brought. Unconscious is different from catatonic, however. Jak’s very much awake, he’s just not alert, not present. Phoenix could attempt to gently bring Jak back from whatever imaginary world he’s fallen into, but he fears it might cause more harm than good. It leaves him with only one choice, he must swallow the lump in his throat, calm the tremor in his hands and proceed, with caution.

“I’m going to clean and bandage your fingers.” He’s not sure if Jak can hear him, but it doesn’t feel right to remain silent, to not explain what is going to be done. “And I’ll need to put the IV back in, then I’ll get you into a fresh gown, alright?” He pauses, hopeful for a response, a slight nod of the head or twitch of the lips.

Jak blinks, slow and sluggish, gaze remaining vacant.

It’s not verbal consent, but it’s the best Phoenix will get. “Okay, I’m going to begin.”

Inhaling deeply, centring himself, Phoenix begins. He cleans and dresses Jak’s fingertips first, smothering them in antiseptic and green eco balm, before wrapping the tips in gauze. By morning, the green eco will have healed the worst of the damage, at least enough to prevent infection or rouse suspicion – Commander Erol and the Baron cannot learn of what happened here tonight. The cannula comes next, the sharp prick of the needle causing Jak to wince. 

Phoenix pauses, searching Jak’s face for further discomfort, finding a glint in his eyes, a shimmer of tears or maybe it’s just the lights playing tricks on him. “I’m going to change your gown now, Jak,” Phoenix informs, reaching behind Jak to unlace the gown, waiting a moment, allowing Jak time to respond, to resist, before easing it down his arms.

Jak flinches from time to time, body tensing, breath quickening his only layer against the night falls away. Phoenix moves with caution, with great care, helping Jak to slip into the clean gown, making a mental note to fetch him warm socks and fleece pyjamas from home. Perhaps he should bring some meals and snacks as well since the kitchen here has little food to offer. Maybe some books and magazines too, little things that can be slipped by security without question.

He cannot allow suspicion to fall on them. If he selects the wrong item, makes the wrong move, then this rescue mission will fall apart. Every choice, every step must be made with great precision. Of course, none of this will matter if Phoenix can’t get Jak to trust him. If he can’t _reach_ him. It’s going to a challenge to get past the kid’s defences, to find a path to his broken heart, but Phoenix will do whatever it takes – he only hopes tonight’s mistakes can be mended.

Phoenix’s eyelids grow heavy, fingers cramping from working nonstop. Jak sways dangerously on the edge of the bed, boneless and barely conscious. Phoenix steadies him, trying not to dislodge the syringe from the IV. “Almost done, champ.” He sets aside the tray of medical supplies, capping off the cannula port before covering it with a cotton dressing. This should prevent the kid from tearing it out again or snaring it in his sleep.

“Alright, all finished.” He forced a smile, though Jak’s half-lidded eyes remain blank. There is a pang in his chest, a twitch of rage that jostling with the heartache. It’s a familiar sensation of regret and bitterness. “I’m going to get you out of here,” he whispers, voice full of conviction.

Jak remains unresponsive, eyes fluttering closed, head lolling to the side as exhaustion finally claims him. Carefully, Phoenix gathers Jak in his arms, moving him to the neighbouring bed, as the sheets are tacky from sweat and blood. With the utmost care, he sets Jak down on the cot, tucking him in, making sure the covers are snug around his frame, the way his grandmother used to do for him. Eyes burning, body aching in desperate need of sleep, Phoenix gathers his remaining strength, sluggishly completes the last few tasks.

After the IV has been hooked up, the gauze and antiseptic wipes disposed of the and grimy sheets stripped from the bed, Phoenix finds himself standing in the centre of the room, watching the steady rise and fall of Jak’s chest. He’s not quite sure what to do next. Does he go and find Ivan? Apologise for being so blunt with him earlier, though he didn’t have a choice, the grey markings on his face made him instantly untrustworthy to Jak. Or does he give in to the exhaustion and crawl into one of the unoccupied beds.

It’s guilt, and that unnamed, undisclosed _something_ that forces him to find Ivan. Phoenix is not often the apologetic type, but Ivan has awoken something new within him, has snuck past his defences. Stepping into the office, he finds Ivan slumped at the desk, head propped up by one hand, eyes closed. Phoenix takes a moment to admire the way his dark hair curls fall across his face, the way his sharp edges appear soft and smoothed out.

Smiling to himself, Phoenix walks over to Ivan, gently shaking him awake.

Warm hazel eyes flutter open. “Good, you’re still alive,” he murmured, scrubbing a hand over his beard.

“Ivan.” There is a warning in his tone, an unspoken plea to see reason. “Jak is not some wild animal. He’s scared and hurting in ways we couldn’t possibly fathom.” Guilt flickers in Ivan’s eyes, kiss bitten lips pressing into a solemn line. “I need you to be gentle with him.” Phoenix persists, kneeling before him. “Given what Jak’s been through, it’ll take a miracle to get him to trust us.” He places a hand on Ivan’s thigh’s, fingers flexing against the firm muscles, giving, and taking. “I need you to put away whatever fears you may have and help me.” He holds Ivan’s eyes, feeling the intensity of his gaze. “I can’t do this alone.”

Ivan sighs resignedly, body slumping in defeat. “You’re lucky you’re a good lay,” he quipped, lips curling into an impish grin.

“I think you’re the one who’s lucky,” he replied, words accompanied by a wide smile. “I don’t make a habit of sleeping with the enemy.”

“Is that what I am?” His hand falls away, hazel eyes glistening with hurt. “Is that what I’ve allowed myself to become?”

Regret grips Phoenix’s heart. “You are not the enemy,” he declared, taking hold of Ivan’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “You are not the things you did in order to survive. This city, _Praxis,_ it forces us to be cruel, to turn the other way so we can live another day. We can’t escape our past or wash away the blood, but we can try to make amends, starting with Jak.”

“Why do you care so much about him?” he demanded. “You don’t even know him.”

“I feel like I do,” he confessed, “like I was meant to.” He shakes his head, fatigue is making his thoughts slippery, but he _need_ s Ivan to understand. “You believe in the Precursors, right?”

“Yeah, of course,” he replied, subconsciously grasping at the pendant around his neck.

“Well, I never did, not really,” he admitted. “I thought people shackled themselves to their faith out of fear, or because they wanted something to hide behind, something to boast about. Now…” He paused, the gathering words feeling strange in his mouth, but feeling _right_ when spoken. “Now I’m starting to believe.” Faith came and went for Phoenix, trickled through his fingertips like smoke, able to be seen but never held. Something had changed, _he_ had changed, and now faith was starting to become tangible, solidify. “Maybe not in the Precursors, but in destiny.”

“You think we’re here, in this God-forsaken place, for a reason?”

“Maybe.” Or perhaps he’s tired, so fucking tired and scared and desperately clutching at straws, at anything that will help him feel brave.

“And that reason is to rescue Jak?”

“Possibly.” Or perhaps this is fate. Maybe saving Jak _matters_.

“Okay,” Ivan whispered, head falling forward to rest against Phoenix’s. “Okay.”

The words, loaded with trust and acceptance, ghost across Phoenix’s lips, seeping into his bones like warmth from a fire. He tilts his face forward, capturing Ivan’s lips in a tender kiss, savouring the moment, tucking it away for safekeeping. With one last kiss, deep and dizzying, Phoenix rises, slipping free of Ivan’s fiery touch. He’d love nothing more than to fall back into bed with Ivan, to apologise and give thanks with his body, but he must return to Jak, make sure he sleeps safely through the remaining hours of the night.

“Get some rest,” he murmured, pulling away, body already anticipating the comfort of the bed awaiting him. “I’ve got to stay with Jak, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Shout if you need me.” Ivan echoes his earlier words, though this time there is no edge to his voice. He’s committing to their course, to whatever is sparking to life between them.

“I will.” Phoenix steals one last kiss then rises, leaving Ivan to watch over them.

**~~~~~~~~~~**

The morning arrives all too soon and with a familiar persistent beeping. Tired eyes blink sluggishly open, body moving into an upright position and shuffling Phoenix across the infirmary before his mind can fully awaken. Phoenix silences the machine before it can wake Jak, removing the empty bag of antibiotics and checking the fluid levels. Placing a hand on Jak’s forehead, he finds the skin cool but not clammy. It’s a good sign, his fever hasn’t returned, though he’ll need a few more days of intravenous antibiotics.

Then what? The moment Jak’s well enough he’ll be returned to his cell, subjected once more to inhumane experiments. Phoenix can’t keep Jak here indefinitely - the Commander is already anxious for his return. No, anxious isn’t the right word, impatient and eager are better fitting. Commander Erol seeks Jak’s return for his own twisted desire. There is no doubt in Phoenix’s mind that he is responsible for the hand-shaped bruises. The bite marks. He’s violating Jak and getting away with it because no one in this hellish place cares. Commander Erol knows he can do as he pleases, can take what _he_ wants, that much is evident by the mess he leaves behind.

One day, in a far-off future, Phoenix will make sure Commander Erol is held accountable for what he’s done. Though Phoenix was not supposed to, he took samples from Jak’s pelvic examination in hopes of being able to get him justice one day. For today, which is as miserable and bleak outside is it is in within, all he can do is offer Jak comfort and care. He will wake Jak later, for now, he needs rest, and Phoenix needs a strong cup of coffee.

Entering the kitchen a few moments later, he finds the percolator has already been turned on, a freshly brewed pot of coffee ready and waiting. He pours a mug and grabs a day-old blueberry muffin, heading back the infirmary to check on Jak once more before making his way to the sleeping quarters. The room is empty, but the sounds of running water can be heard coming from the bathroom. It’s tempting to join Ivan, but he can't leave Jak alone for long, and if he steps into the shower, he’ll be helpless to resist Ivan.

Instead, he sits on the rumpled bed and waits, sipping his coffee and forcing down the stale muffin. He needs to shower and change at some point, after all, he’s still wearing Ivan’s shirt and yesterdays creased pants. While he waits, he picks up the notepad from the bedside table, making a list of items to collect from home, some for him, most for Jak. He’s finished his coffee and forgotten the muffin by the time Ivan emerges, half-dressed, hair damp and sticking to his forehead, eyes tired but brightening when they meet his.

“Good morning,” he rumbles, voice raspy than usual. “Were you spying on me?”

“Isn’t that your job?” he teased, eyes raking over Ivan’s toned chest. “I have a favour to ask of you.”

“More favours?”

Ivan’s blunt response is understandable, Phoenix has asked everything of him, and he doesn’t have much to give in return. Ivan has so much more to lose if this rescue mission goes south, he has a family on the line and no high status to fall back on. Ivan’s risking everything for him, for a boy he doesn’t even trust.

“I’ll make it worthwhile,” Phoenix said, grinning coquettishly, though he wants to say a dozen other things. He cares deeply for Ivan, and it terrifies him. Hell, he hasn’t felt this way since he was seventeen and falling for the wrong guy.

But Ivan’s not the wrong guy, not this time.

“I’ll hold you to it,” he replied, bite thawing from his tone. “Now, may I have my shirt, please?”

Phoenix glanced down at the blue fabric stretching across his chest, he’s rather enjoying wearing Ivan’s shirt, it smells faintly of cedarwood and a scent that is uniquely Ivan. “Right, of course.” He pulled the tight tunic over his head, passing it to Ivan, who thanked him before putting it on. “We should do this again sometime,” Phoenix said, slipping into his own crinkled button-down shirt.

“I guess that could be arranged.” Ivan grinned, hazel eyes travelling over Phoenix’s bare chest, promising a next time, promising a dozen next times.

“I’m glad we’ve come to an agreement,” he said, swallowing the pit of desire forming in his throat. He’d love to carry on this conversation, turn into something more, but there is no time for fooling around, for distractions, which are Phoenix’s vices, his clutches when things get too real. He’s gone too far, has fallen in swoops, and now his heart lies between a devilish man and an innocent kid. A coldness settles over him, frost forming in his bones, it feels misplaced amongst the heat of desire.

It feels like a bad omen, a warning sign.  
  
Ivan must have sensed the shift, felt the coldness creep in with the weight of the choices they’ve made. Fully dressed, Ivan sits on the end of the bed, those warm hazel eyes holding Phoenix captive. The unsettling freeze shifts, scattering like the tendrils of a nightmare. He capsizes in Ivan’s gaze, letting go of fear, drowning in their depths. He is terrified of the power Ivan holds over him, of the feelings awakening in his once frozen heart. Usually, this is where he’d run, before the arguments, before the heartbreak, but this time, for the first time since he was in love at seventeen, he is going to stay.

He’s ready to embrace the unknown.

“So, what was your favour?”

“Oh, right.” Rising from the depths of Ivan’s eyes, Phoenix tears the page from the note pad, handing it to Ivan. “I don’t feel comfortable leaving Jak just yet, so I was hoping you’d be able to grab a few things from my apartment for me?”

“Sure.” He accepted the note. “I was going to head back to Haven to get us some breakfast anyway.” He glanced down, nose crinkling. “This is a lot, you planning on movin in?”

“No,” he replied, “some of it’s for Jak.”

“Phoenix.” Ivan drags his name out, turning into a warning. “If Erol catches you giving this stuff to the kid he’s gonna get suspicious.”

“It’s worth the risk,” he insisted, voice softening as he continued. “Please, Ivan, we only have a small window of opportunity, and we need to get Jak to trust us.”

“And books and chicken soup will do that?”

“Actions speak louder than words.”

Ivan pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a resigned sigh. “Precursors, why did I agree to this?”

“Because you are a good person.” He reaches out for Ivan’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “It’s going to be all right.” Phoenix can’t guarantee this, the future is out of their control, but they're not entirely powerless. He is a quick thinker, a master of misdirection and distraction, if someone comes asking questions, he’ll lead them astray. Not that anyone beside Commander Erol has ever come here, and the air races are on this week, so he won’t be back any time soon. “As long as we’re careful coming and going, we’ll be fine,” he continued, “and if anyone does drop by, I’ll give them the old razzle, dazzle.” He flashes a bright smile, accompanying it with a wink.

Ivan groaned, though there’s a look of fondness upon his face. “Okay, okay, but you better be a damn good liar,” the smile falters, expression turning sombre, “because if you’re not, we’re screwed.”

“Trust me, I can charm my way out of anything.” Again, he wanted to say more, to give Ivan more than a playful response. He’s not used to being so open, so honest. This vulnerability is rather frightening, yet he leans in, embracing it.

“Alright, I trust you.” He leant forward, sealing his words with a kiss. “Take some time to get to know the kid while I’m gone, okay? See what you can learn about him too, he might have a family out there missing him.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” he admitted, ashamed the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. Phoenix was accustomed to going it alone, whenever he heard other people talk fondly of their family it felt like hearing fairy tales. The only person to ever show him love and affection was his grandmother, and she’d been gone so long he scarcely remembered what that felt like. “Would it be safe to return him to them? What if they willingly gave him to the Baron?”

“In this city, it wouldn’t surprise me,” Ivan murmured. “Let’s table this until we know a little more about him.” Ivan rose, pocketing the note. “I won't be long; you gonna be alright without me?”

“I think I can manage,” Phoenix assured, getting to his feet to draw Ivan in for a kiss goodbye.

Ivan kissed back, calloused hands cradling his face, holding him close, drinking him in. It takes a few tries for Phoenix to pry himself away, every time they separated for air, they’d crash back into each other, lips chasing lips, hands reaching and roaming the same paths they travelled last night. It was dizzying and intoxicating, like nothing else he’d ever felt. The future might be uncertain, full of peril, but what he feels for Ivan, what is sparking to life between them felt solid, steadfast.

And with the knowledge of that, Phoenix was able to let go, trusting that Ivan would return.

With one last kiss, Phoenix turned away, ushering Ivan out into the hallway before ducking into the office to grab his apartment keys and orb card. Glancing at the window, he finds Jak still sleeping, small frame curled up tightly under the covers. Is someone missing him? Was he given away to Praxis like a useless trinket? That seems unlikely. There had been a fiery determination in Jak’s eyes, a strength that must have been nurtured, encouraged. He’d been loved and cared for, Phoenix was sure of it, but what happened to those loved ones?

The questions were endless, and, at this moment, Phoenix was undeserving of the answers. He had to devote everything to Jak, he needs more than a guardian and a caretaker – he _needs_ a friend. He wasn’t the greatest when it came to friendships, his past was dotted with failed attempts to connect with people, but a very few, like Ivan, like the best he hadn’t spoken to in months, found a way past his defences.

For Jak, he’d have to tear down the walls, be the one reaching out, the anchor to take hold of in rough seas. Determination sparked, Phoenix grabbed the apartment keys and the gold orb express card from his wallet. Stepping back into the hallway, Phoenix is met by Ivan’s rigid back, the air charged with tension. Phoenix closed the distance between them, coming to stand at Ivan’s side, following his gaze to the scratch’s marks on the door. They looked worse in the light of day.

"Are you going to report this to anyone?" he found himself asking, heart hammering in anticipation.

"It would be in our best interest if I didn't,’ He replied, voice flat, almost detached. “It'll only attract unwanted attention.” He turned to face Phoenix, hazel eyes darkening with worry. “You need to be careful, Phoenix. The kids not as frail and helpless as he looks."

"So, you've said.” He crossed his arms defencelessly, hating that Ivan couldn’t see past his fears, couldn’t see the innocence within. “And I'm aware of what dark eco can do to people.” A spark of anger flared in his gut, voice biting when he says, “I’ve watched three men die horrible, gruesome deaths, remember?” 

“I know that,” he snapped, “but dying from dark eco poisoning and being changed by it are two different things.” He gestures at the door. “We could be setting free something dangerous.”

"I don't believe that.” Dark eco warps minds and deforms bodies, it’s worse than cancer than almost any disease. It’s altered Jak somehow, _somewhere,_ but it’s yet to splinter his mind, which means there is hope, and while there is still hope Phoenix won’t give up on him. He won’t let Ivan either. “And I don't think you do either; otherwise you wouldn't be helping me.” He rests a hand on Ivan’s shoulder. “I get it,” he continued, offering a smile of understanding, laced with an apology, "I do, but Jak isn't the one we need to fear."

Ivan relents, expression softening a fraction. "We'll see." He punches in the code for the door, it opens with a hiss and a groan. He steps out, pausing to look back. “Just be careful, _please_.”

The words tug at Phoenix’s heart, jostling with the spark of anger. He isn't used to having someone worry about him, it’s touching, even if it’s unnecessary. "There's nothing to worry about, Ivan."

“Yeah, well,” Ivan said, lips curling into a strained smile, “I hope you're right.” The door hisses, closing as Ivan walks away.

Phoenix lets out a weary sigh, gaze lifting to the ceiling, looking beyond it, hoping that somewhere in the wide expensive of the universe, someone or _something_ is looking back. “Precursors,” he says, voice echoing in the empty space, “give me strength.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been thinking about putting this work into a series and spacing out each part as different fics - though they will all still be deeply connected. What do you lovelies think? Should I keep it as one long fic or split it between the seven parts?


	5. Trust Pending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories, torn at the edges and faded like old photographs play in Jak's mind. For a moment, he is home, is tucked into bed, listening to his Uncle regale him with tales of his latest adventure. Daxter is there too, blue eyes impossibly wide and lit with delight. Uncle Halbert’s voice swells and rumbles, words used like paints on a canvas, creating a vivid image of a heroic tale. Jak listened to every word, dreaming of the day he could join him at sea and bring home trade and stories from faraway places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'ed sorry!  
> Warning: Nightmares, panic attacks

**~~Jak~~**

Jak is weightless, _limitless,_ time turning and bending as he floats through a sea of fog, the grey stretching out in every direction, glittering with mirages and memories. He doesn’t want to wake, to leave the peaceful space of the in-between. Here, the cruel world can be forgotten, can be chased away by the wispy thin memories of a childhood left behind, but his mind is fighting against the fog, body struggling to move, to wake. There is a shift, a spark of pain, and the grey world shatters apart.

Jak falls through the splintered world of spliced memories and glittery mirages, tumbling, plummeting, jolting awake. The landing rattles through his aching body, tearing a gasp from his raw throat. The room shifts into focus, sharp and clear compared to the faint memories stirring awake. This isn’t the first time Jak’s woken in this strange place – he’s been here for quite some time, though there is no clear memory of arriving. This isn’t an experimentation room or a cell. It’s bigger, brighter, and cleaner, smells like pine, with an underlining of sweat and sick and faintly beneath that, dark eco.

Jak shifts on the bed, daring to sit up, relieved to find no bonds, though the bed's guardrails have metal cuffs attached to them. Surveying the room, he takes in every inch and speck that is visible in the muted morning lighting, from the crumpled bedsheets of the other beds to the window overlooking a sea of darkness. Jak’s heart quickens, hope bursting to life at the chance of escape. Wasting no time Jak jumps to his feet, ignoring the ache from deep inside, forcing tired muscles to move quickly.

Vaguely he is aware of being attached to something, there is a sharp sting in his left hand, bright and fleeting, but he pays it no mind. Desperately he tugs at the seams of the glass with sore fingers, blind to the gauze covered tips, pounding against it in frustration when it remains sealed. Deflated, defeated, his head falls against the glass, the darkness below coming into focus. Outside is a sheer drop to a churning sea, in the distance, Haven City stands tall and proud, arising out of the morning fog in sharp steel angles. It is both beautiful and monstrous.

He is so close, yet so far away.

A violent shiver sets in, rattling him down to the bone, making it difficult to breathe. Trembling legs carry him back to the bed, he crawls in under the covers, curling up against the chill. He doesn’t remember what it feels like to be warm, to feel the heat of flames from a roaring fire or to submerge in a tub filled with heated water. There is only winter within these walls, only ice-cold showers with violent streams of water.

The cold has unpacked in his bones, made a home within his heart and every breath is like inhaling the icy winds of Snowy Mountain. At least he can remember that, can recall trudging through the snow in search of Precursor orbs and having snowball fights with Daxter and Keira. For a few fleeting moments, Jak is under the snow-laden sky, head titled back, catching snowflakes on his tongue, in the distance Daxter grumbles about the cold and Keira builds a snowman.

Finding comfort in the memory, Jak allows it to wrap around him, the way loving arms once did. He hides in the past, letting it block out the pain and fear, and waits for someone to come for him. _Someone_ always comes for him, be it the crimson armoured guards or the Commander himself. Jak is never alone for long, and today is no different. When he returns to the world sometime later, the sun has risen into the sky, the day a little less watery and bleak, and he is no longer alone.

Phoenix, his mind supplies as he lifts his gaze, taking in the physicians smiling face.

“Good morning,” he greets, voice smooth and gentle. “How are you feeling, Jak?”

He flinches at the use of his name, stomach twisting into knots at the vague memory of revealing his name to Phoenix. He’s kept his name secret for so long, had it under lock and key, clutched tightly to it in a feeble attempt to save something for himself, _of himself_. The people in this place took and took, breaking and tainting, every inch of him, but at least his name hadn’t been spoken, _stained,_ like the rest of him. Precursor’s why did he tell Phoenix? Why had he trusted him with this, with the last link to the boy he once was?

It must have been the fever, the desperate need for comfort, a friend. But is this man, with his gentle touch and kind eyes, really a friend? Or is this just another test, a trick, a game to be played and lost? Jak must tread lightly, choose every word and action wisely. Perhaps there is something to be gained by making an ally if Phoenix can be trusted. Escaping has been futile, the scars on the soles of Jak’s feet a constant reminder of that, but with assistance, there could be a chance.

Phoenix would have key cards and codes, could navigate the dark and twisting corridors. It would be risky, and if Jak were to fail, the punishment would be cruel, but Erol has already _hurt_ him in so many ways, what _else_ could he do? He’s violated every inch of him, mapped out his flesh with sharp knives and blunt nails, reached deep within and broken pieces Jak didn’t even know he had to break. Jak’s breath catches, hitches the air suddenly ripped from his lungs, leaving him gasping, _trembling_.

For a terrifying moment, Jak fears he is dying, that whatever illness has him brought him to the infirmary is taking over. Is killing him. Perhaps he doesn’t deserve to go free, is too dirty and changed to be returned to the world, to his friends who he envisions as shiny and bright and _untouched_. The golden hero is no more, was smothered out by the dark eco, by the cruel things done to him in the dark. The Precursors have forsaken him, tossed him aside like a child’s broken plaything, and this fortress of despair will be his grave.

He is unworthy.

_Tarnished._

He can’t breathe, is clutching at his throat while the other hand clings to the thin fabric above his frantically beating heart. It hurts. Feels like he’s swallowed gasoline then struck a match, setting his lungs and throat ablaze. The room tilts and wilts, colours bleeding into a shapeless mess, but something is moving. There are hands-on his skin, but they do not bruise or bind. In the distance, there are fragmented words of comfort. Something cold and smelling unnatural is placed over his head, it feels like the awful mask once used to force the dark eco into his lungs, though the vapour pouring into his mouth doesn’t burn his nostrils or taste like burnt sweets. 

“Just breathe, Jak.” 

Eyes flutter closed against the swirling, dizzying world. Jak imagines the voice belongs to his Uncle, that this is just a bad dream, and when he wakes, everything will be okay. He’ll be home, in his own bed, this hellish place a delusion conjured by a fever. Eventually, it’ll be forgotten, another nightmare to write on some parchment and toss into the ocean, just as Uncle Halbert taught him to do when he was a young child plagued by nightmares of a monster with sharp fangs and glistening yellow eyes. 

When morning arrived, Uncle Halbert would sit him down at the rickety breakfast table and feed him poached eggs with thick slices of freshly baked bread. Afterwards, Uncle Halbert would hand him some parchment, and a feathered quill and Jak would write out what he remembered of the nightmare. ‘It's good to get it out of your head,' Uncle Halbert always said, smiling softly. 'Then send it out to sea, to sink to the murky depths, then you'll be free of its power.' 

"There you go, you're okay." 

The present seeps back in, lungs calming as oxygen returned, extinguishing the flames. Uncle Halbert's voice faded, the physician's polished and smooth one filtering back in. 

"You back with me?" 

The memory floats away, taking warmth and comfort with it. The cold, harsh reality settles back in, bringing with it waves of sorrow. It takes all of Jak’s strength not to cry. Tears teeter dangerously on his lashes, threatening to fall and reveal how weak he is. 

"It’s alright.” The physician soothed, wrapping a blanket around his trembling shoulders. “You’re safe.” 

They’ve been through this song and dance before, maybe more than once. He can’t remember, is thinking through fog, has been for months. Time is blurred and meaningless, the endlessly hours of darkness and isolation punctured only by periods of forced experiments and beatings - by the Commander visiting late in the night. Jak shudders at the memory, stomach-churning in revulsion.

A tear trickles free, rolling down his cheek. Jak lifts his hand, brushing it away with shaking, aching fingers. Glancing down, he realises that his fingertips have been wrapped in gauze, that the skin beneath feels raw, _twinges_. They hadn’t been like this when he woke up yesterday – if it was yesterday. There are hazy memories of a brightly lit place, a glistening door, unguarded and promising freedom. It didn't open, he couldn't break it down with his fist, couldn't claw his way through, isn't sure why he tried to. But the vague memory is there, nails scratching at steel, ripping, breaking, bleeding. Whatever occurred next is swallowed by the fog. 

“Jak.” There is a hand on his shoulder, warm and steady, drawing him back. Its large enough to hold him down and strong enough to leave bruises, yet the touch is gentle, comforting even. "Are you alright?"

He nods, even though he's not, hasn't been in months.

“Do you mind terribly if I examine you again?” Phoenix holds Jak’s gaze, the indigo depths of his eyes, revealing no malice. “It’s okay if you need some more time, I won't do anything without your permission.” 

No one ever asks if they can touch him, no one ever asks if he wants to be sliced and stabbed, filled with dark eco, taken apart to see how he works. They strap him down, strip him, force sharp objects into his veins, cut and curve at his flesh until he is a bloody mess. No one ever asks, they just take and force and _hurt_. Phoenix’s compassion _feels_ genuine, though that doesn't mean it is. He could be just like them, he wears the same white coat, has the same instruments, yet he's asking for permission. For now, Jak will accept the kindness, Precursors he needs, _craves it_ , but he will remain vigilant.

Phoenix has not yet earnt his trust, but Jak is willing to give him a chance. 

**~~~~~~~~~~**

The dismal day passed slowly, grey clouds parting just before sundown to reveal a lilac sky, streaked with clouds of pale pink and orange. The sunset might be muted compared to the vibrant ones at Geyser Rock, yet Jak can’t tear his gaze away. It’s the first sunset he’s seen in over a hundred days. It’s beautiful and bittersweet, leaves him aching and wanting to go home, to be somewhere safe and warm, surrounded by loved ones and familiar things.

He hopes, with what little hope is left, that Daxter, Keira, and Samos are somewhere safe, _together_ , planning a way home - wherever home is. He can’t believe anything less. Won’t listen to the voices whispering lies, telling him he’ll never see his friends or home again. 

Jak falls back against the pillows, pulling the covers to his chin, a feeble attempt to strive off the cold. Outside day bleeds into night, and Jak finally looks away from the window, lashes fluttering to chase away the sting of tears. If he comes undone, he’ll never get out of this hellish place, never find his friends. That’s _if_ he gets out, that’s if they still want him. He’s not the golden boy anymore, not the shiny hero.

Despair crests over him, bitter and all-consuming, pulling him down into dark waters. His breathing hitches, chest tightening as he sinks deeper, the coldness, that no number of blankets could thaw, seeping into his bones. Jak fears might drown, is terrified that the dark waters won’t release him this time, but then there is a burst of light, a beacon guiding him out of murky depths. Resurfacing, Jak finds the room lit by bright light, the darkness and the monsters hiding within it chased away.

Phoenix is once more at his side, speaking softly and checking him over with his strange medical devices. Phoenix is speaking, though Jak doesn’t hear the words, just nods in agreement, too tired and miserable to put up a fight, though so far, the choice to trust Phoenix has panned out fine. He hasn’t harmed him, hasn’t raised his voice, or called him names. Hasn’t shoved him or pulled him by the hair. Even now, as he gentle encourages Jak from the bed to the bathroom, his touch remains gentle. Once inside the bathroom, Phoenix continues talking, his accent reminding Jak of his uncles, though his voice was a deep rumble, like thunder in the summer.

Memories, torn at the edges and faded like old photographs play in Jak's mind. For a moment, he is home, is tucked into bed, listening to his Uncle regale him with tales of his latest adventure. Daxter is there too, blue eyes impossibly wide and lit with delight. Uncle Halbert’s voice swells and rumbles, words used like paints on a canvas, creating a vivid image of a heroic tale. Jak listened to every word, dreaming of the day he could join him at sea and bring home trade and stories from faraway places.

Coldness seeps into the night, but it’s not the sly breeze creeping in through the open window. It’s bitting, spreading from his shoulder blades to the backs of his legs. Jak reels back, body colliding painfully against something solid, the memory caving in on itself, Uncle Halbert's voice thinning and fading until there’s only darkness. Knees bend and buckle, sending him crashing to down. He can’t think through the fear, can’t breathe, or remember where he is.

He needs to remember.

The darkness shudders and shakes, allowing thought and reason to shine through. This isn’t home, home is somewhere else, somewhere far, far away and Jak can’t get to it. This is a prison, but this room is not his cold and grimy cell. He’s somewhere else, somewhere else, _somewhere else_. Slowly, little by little, the present trickles back in - there are bursts of colour, moss green titles, a white ceiling, indigo eyes, then everything speeds up, shifting back into focus.

He’s sitting on the bathroom floor, back against a wall, trembling and naked. The physician looms over him, a towering force Jak would be unable to win against. He flinches in anticipation as Phoenix steps closer, but the pain and violence never come.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Jak.” His steps falter. “See.” He holds his hands up, palms out. It reminds Jak of Farmer Jeb calming a scared yakcow. “I’m staying right here, okay?” Slowly, he lowers himself to the ground, sitting crossed legged two feet away. “Here,” he holds out the gown, it smells of sweat and sick. “You’re shivering.”

Jak reaches out, taking the grimy garment and hurriedly placing it over his legs. It offers little warmth or privacy, but it’s better than being bitten by the chill of the room, then being exposed and vulnerable.

“I’m sorry,” Phoenix says after a moment, the sincerity in his voice taking Jak by surprise. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Jak drops his gaze, shame burning hotly under his skin. He feels stupid, _pathetic_. If Phoenix had ill intentions, Jak would have given him a free invitation to his body. Bitter tears gather in his eyes, stomach twisting with a jumbled mix of self-loathing and disgust. If Daxter and Keira could see him now, see how far he’d fallen, they’d be ashamed. Angrily, Jak wipes the tears from his eyes, biting his lip to repress the sob building in his throat.

It's not safe to show weakness, the guards can smell it, swarm to it like lurker sharks in chummed waters. If he sheds a single tear, they will eat him alive. Jak gathers himself, pulling all the shattered pieces together with what little strength is left. The tension ebbs from Jak’s shoulders, chest expanding to exhale a shaky breath, the sound catching Phoenix’s attention.

“You ready for that shower?”

Jak eyes the shower stall anxiously, pulse-quickening with the memories of being shoved under the icy torrent, face pressed into the wall with such force the impact split his lip, left bruises. The guards never leave him unattended in the shower, not since the time he tried eating a bar of soap. At that moment, with his skin marked with fresh bruises, thighs streaked with blood, with the Commander’s seed, Jak shattered, jagged pieces cascading to the grimy shower floor.

He was broken, was tainted, fundamentally, _irrevocably_ changed by the vile act just committed. There was no return, no exit. This body, bruised and beaten, filled with dark eco and the Commander’s filth, would never be the same again. He considers this foolish, d _esperate_ choice the fourth escape attempt, and like the others, it failed, and punishment came in the removal of privacy. He’s ashamed of the choice he made that day, but like so many other things, he can’t take it back.

“Jak.” Phoenix’s voice pulls him back to the present. “It’s okay. I won’t force you. It’s your choice.”

 _It’s okay_ the words settle on his skin, reverberate in his mind. It’s okay… _it’s okay._ He has a choice; Phoenix is giving him a choice. Straightening up, taking a steady breath, Jak nods, hoping it conveys that he is ready. He can do this.

“Alright, let’s get you up.” Phoenix helps him to stand, legs trembling and numb from the cold.

He stands awkwardly for a moment, clutching at the gown with one hand while Phoenix places a plastic bag over his left, informing him it’s to keep the IV from getting wet. When that’s done, Phoenix turns the shower on, the sound of running water filling the room. With a shuddering breath, Jak steps forward, away from the wall, past Phoenix, to the edge of the shower. An undercurrent of fear has him hesitating, muscles tightening in anticipation of pelting, icy droplets.

Fear tries to convince him to turn around, to ignore the steam and heat wafting from the shower, but he’s come this far, and it would be nice to wash away the sweat and scent of sick. He takes another breath, inhaling deep into his lungs, feeling it stoke the embers. He takes the plunge, body stepping under the warm water. Tears spring to his eyes, relief washing through him, cascading down around him in a gentle stream of warm water.

“There’s soap in there for you to use,” Phoenix said, tugging the curtain partly closed. “I’ll be here if you need me, alright?”

Jak nods in acknowledgement, waiting for Phoenix to close the curtain before ducking his head under the spray. The warmth of the water envelopes him, tugging at the frayed threads holding him together. He is overwhelmed by joy and anguish, jostled between them like a ship at sea. There are tears on his cheeks, mixing with the water, a sob building in his chest, yet his skin hums with delight, warmth thawing the chill from his bones.

Jak imagines the water washing away the scars left by the many sharp instruments, sinking deep into his pores, erasing the memory of unwanted hands. The water trickles down the drain, and he envisions it taking away his skin, which no longer feels like his own, and in its place, new skin will grow, unmarked, _untouched_. In his mind, when he steps out, he will be different. He will be remade. Stronger this time, no longer a broken boy with ruined flesh.

It’s a delusion he indulges in, turns over and over in his head until his skin is scrubbed clean and fingers pruned. It’s a wish that will not be granted, that must be shoved aside, or else he’ll shatter apart, _again_. Turning the water off, Jak pulls back the curtain and steps out, unchanged. There are still scars on his skin, still bruises in various stages of healing scattered across his body, but the chill in his bones has lessened.

Phoenix bundles him in a towel, steadying him as he sways, strength is burning out fast, the artificially cold air working its way quickly to his core, chasing the pleasant warmth from his bones. A shiver sets in, making his teeth chatter. Jak’s vision dulls, head filling with fog. The moment of lucidity is fading as fast as the warmth, leaving him vulnerable. Usually, Jak would fight tooth and nail against the waves of fatigue, but something within is shifting.

Jak’s starting to believe, for the first time in months, that he’s in safe hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, there isn't a lot happening in these last few chapters, I'm just working through some relationship building/character building than the chapters will focus a little more on other things. This isn't the most action-packed part as I'm more so used to writing with emotions and settings. I will add some action later on (I'm bit nervous/excited to venture outside my comfort zone) so I hope you lovely readers enjoy an emotional journey in the meantime :)


	6. Night Shift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Determination burns through him, chasing the icy tendrils of fatigue from his bones. His sluggish steps turn into powerful strides, the confidence engulfing him in a heady spell of bravado. He feels unstoppable, is charged and ready to fight, to put things in motion. If the escape plan were complete, Phoenix would insist they leave tonight, would ride the wave of courage and fire and spring Jak, everyone, then put a torch to this hellish place. Watch it all come down in flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I had to re-edit this last minute and weed out mistakes as much as I could :) Hope you enjoy and if you do it would be lovely to have some feedback!
> 
> Warnings: mention of rape kit

**Phoenix**

Neon lights shine brightly in the distance, bold colours spelling out sales and deals. Signs flash in promise of a good time, advertising a chance to win, to enjoy delicious foods and other pleasures. The night air is charged, is vibrating with the hustle and bustle of a wild Friday night. From within the sea of dazzling lights, it’s hard to believe Haven is a place of disarray and misery. The Light District exists to distract, to fool and trick the people into forgetting their troubles. The winking girls made of pink neon lights cast a spell, making it seem like anything, and everything is possible, if only for a night.

As Phoenix makes his way through the densely packed streets, memories of another life play out around him. He stands at twenty-two under a neon sign in the shape of a martini glass, swaying in the blue light. In the reflection of the tattoo parlour window, he is twenty-three, rolling up his sleeve to admire an anchor the decided to get on a whim, secretly hoping that it would be enough to stop him drifting away. 

The memories dance and twirl, dizzying as the nights they occurred. Phoenix’s feet remember the pavement, lead him to his destination, which is a diner tucked away from the main stretch of bars, clubs, vendors, and tattoo parlours. Blondie’s Diner is a hidden gem tucked away from the stumbling and staggering people of the Light District; it appears like a beacon of hope out of the dark, situated on the edge of the train tracks.

Four years ago, after a night of knocking back drinks and charming his way into the pants of a cute bartender, Phoenix stumbled upon Blondie’s Diner, but it’s who he found inside that made the place truly special. Sitting in a booth, closet to the jukebox, was a white-haired woman. She looked familiar, _felt_ familiar, like a forgotten childhood friend.

The surge of raw emotion had been sobering, left him swaying, sweating. In truth it was probably the alcohol hitting him, the exhaustion of the night taking effect, but caught in the intensity of the moment Phoenix swore it was fate. The diner tunnelled around him, neon lights and chequered floor melding together as he stumbled forward, the floor rushing up, ready to slam into his body, but the collision never came.

The girl with the snow-white hair caught him, and she’s been catching him ever since. Everything changed after that night. Phoenix was no longer alone, no longer adrift. Davina Fray planted herself firmly in his life, becoming his partner in crime, a devoted friend. They spent many nights at Blondie’s Diner, building their friendship over shakes and fries, retreating to their corner both – and each other – when the world outside became too much. It was a safe place. It was _their_ safe place.

Stepping inside, Phoenix is greeted by the familiar chime of the rusted bell above the door. It’s been some time since Phoenix was last here, but nothing has changed, the lights shine just as bright, the chequered floors are tacky from spilled shakes, and the air smells of watered-down coffee and the best fries in Haven. Waitresses in cherry red bustle behind the counter and circle the floor, taking orders and refilling drinks. Phoenix takes it all in, savouring the sweet scent of waffles and syrup, smiling at worn-out faces as they pass by.

Sitting under neon lights, at the booth closest to the jukebox – which is playing retro hits - is Davina Fray. The calm to Phoenix’s chaos, the anchor to his ship, the best friend he hurt one too many times. With four years of friendship binding them together, Phoenix assumed no mistake or fuck up could tear them apart. Davina wasn’t temporarily like the people he invited into his bed or the on-call rooms and graffiti-covered bathroom stalls at seedy bars. She was a permanent fixture in his life, or at least she had been before Phoenix ruined everything.

When Phoenix called earlier this afternoon, after months of silence, he was surprised that she answered. The collapse of their friendship had been brutal; words had been used as knives, twisted in deep enough to tear sinew and damage nerves. Fallouts like theirs leave wounds, the kind that takes weeks to heal, that leave jagged scars. Now, after the horrors he’s witnessed at the Baron’s prison, the cruel things they said, _shouted_ , no longer matter.

And Davina was right anyway. Phoenix was wasting his life, was throwing away his potential and hiding behind fear, at the bottom of a bottle. The fight, which took place on the doorstep of Davina’s apartment, at some ungodly hour, was over his drinking and unhealthy coping mechanisms. Davina tried and tried and failed to get him sober, had bailed him out of trouble a hundred times, had covered and lied for him at work. The memory of that night is a hazy, fragmented mess that stings whenever poked at, but their fight, which only lasted minutes has stayed in sharp focus.

There is no point in standing here, hesitating, waiting for the inevitable abandonment. Davina answered the call, is here, in _their_ booth, waiting for him with a cherry-chocolate shake. That terrible night is behind them, is buried with the temporary friends and the relationships that fizzled out or imploded. Davina lifts her head as he approaches, lavender eyes finding his, capturing and captivating. He closes the distance between them, slipping into the seat across from her.

The tabletop is sticky and gritty under his sweating palms. A tense minute stretches out between them, a sultry voice sings from the jukebox, and a menu is dropped off by an ocean haired waitress as the last of the dinner rush trickles out into the night. The bell above the door chimes one last time, a hush following. Davina’s glossy pink lips curl into a smile, eyes crinkling at the edges, and the tension pops. Just like that, he is forgiven for the drunken, foolish words, for a thousandth fuck ups and months of silence.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” His heart lifts in his chest, fluttering in relief, in anxious anticipation. “How have you been? How’s work?”

“Busy, but otherwise good.” She plucked the shiny red cherry from the mountain of whipped cream atop of the milkshake. “I started volunteering at a treatment centre a month ago, it’s a nice break from Precursor Health and Healing.” She pops the cherry into her mouth, smiling around it. “I’m finally helping people.”

Phoenix mirrored the smile, chest swelling with pride. Davina grew up in the slums, worked herself to the bone to get through med school, rising to the top of each class, catching attention with her skill and boldness. Very few people from the slums make it to Upper Haven – most can only dream of living in the golden sector of the city – yet Davina earnt a place at Haven’s most prestige hospital. She could have been a physician, hell she could be a million things, but Davina wished to be a nurse, to be a soldier on the front line. Her position at Health and Healing was notable, and Phoenix was thrilled when she got the job, but volunteering at a treatment centre, helping those in need, that was what she’d strived for from the start.

“I’m proud of you, De.”

“Thanks, me too.” She smiled softly. “It’s a lot of work juggling both, and night shifts at the treatment centre have been hectic lately.” She shakes her head, white strands of hair falling into her face. “I swear it’s the full moon, it turns people into lunatics.”

For as long as Phoenix has known Davina she’s been interested in mystics and soothsayers. She’s dragged him to cheap fortune-tellers who doll out eery looking cards or peer into a crystal ball with blank eyes, spilling out cryptic nonsense. Davina wears a smoky eco crystal, attached to a silver chain around her neck, it swirls purple tonight, reminding Phoenix of dark eco, of why he is here. He’s here to ask for a favour, to mend a broken friendship, and to say goodbye, for now at least.

“Night shifts are either the most boring hours of your life or they are completely chaotic,” he said, smiling, “there’s no in-between.”

“Maybe once in a blue moon.” She winked. “So, tell me, Waterford.” Her lavender eyes pin him in place, daring him to lie, asking for the truth. “Why have you summoned me to Blondie’s at the deadest hour of the night?”

“Can’t I have just missed you?” He is kicking himself for not reaching out sooner, for getting carried away with Iven, for letting their friendship drift so far out to sea. Davina deserves better than a rushed apology reunion followed by a goodbye that could be permanent. He’s putting her in danger by involving, but there is no one else he trusts with this. If, no, _when_ this war is over, he’ll explain everything to her and for this favour he will owe her a lifetime supply of burgers and fries.

Her gaze softens. “I’ve missed you too.” She reaches across the table, placing her left hand on his.

A sparkling diamond ring grabs his attention, the neon lights shimmering in its polished surface. “Alec finally asked you to marry him, I see?” He tries to hide the hurt from his tone, but there is a dagger in his chest, piercing his heart.

“Yeah, about two weeks ago he took me to the Luna Fair and proposed on the Ferris wheel, just in time for the fireworks too.” A vibrant, love-struck smile graces her face, adding a twinkle to her eyes. “It was incredibly romantic,” she continued, smile wavering. “I was going to tell you… but, well…” she trailed off, shrugging like their fight was nothing when in truth it was devastating. They imploded, friendship coming down in flames.

“I’m sorry, De.” Words will never be enough, he could give a thousand apologies and a thousand more, but the best thing he can do for her – for them – is to continue growing. “I have been an ungrateful, arrogant ass who took this friendship for granted.” He squeezes her hand, a silent vow to do better. Be better. “I should have pulled myself together sooner, should have stopped living in the past, in _fear_.” He lowers his gaze, staring down at their hands. “I have been running from my trauma long enough.” He lifts his head, holding her glistening gaze. “I’m not running anymore, De.”

“Okay,” she says, single word laced with forgiveness and pride.

Tears gather in Phoenix’s eyes, words sealing in the back of his throat as waves of relief and affection wash over him. For a heartbeat of a moment, he basks in the warmth of forgiveness, the light of their friendship, then, with a deep breath, he pulls himself together. He is about to speak when the young waitress returns, asking for their orders.

“Can I get you anything, sir?” she asks, voice raspy but sweet.

“Just a coffee please,” he replied, “with some cream on the side.”

“Coming right up.” The waitress smiles thinly, then walks away.

“Where was I?” Phoenix asked, returning his attention to Davina.

“You were telling me how you’ve finally decided to stop running from your past.” She took a sip of her milkshake. “Which I hope is going to be followed by you standing up to your parents and letting them know what abusive dickbags they are.”

Phoenix chuckled, feeling the air inhale a little easier into his lungs. “My parents are never going to believe they are anything less than perfect,” he admitted bitterly, “and to be honest, I don’t care anymore. I don’t need them to love me or be proud of my achievements. They never will be.” And soon they will be taking what little evidence they have of him and throwing burning it in the marbled fireplace. They will bury him in an unmarked grave, take down every photo and dust their hands of him. Soon he will be traitor, a disgrace, a stain that will be bleached and scrubbed from the Waterford bloodline. Yet he doesn’t care.

He’s done playing by their rules, is tired of living in the shadows and mistakes of his past.

“Here’s your coffee.” The young waitress is back, placing a white ceramic cup and saucer onto the table by his elbow and plate of fries and an overstuffed burger in front of Davina. “Enjoy.” She flashes another strained smile. Phoenix’s senses sorrow running deep within her, the same kind he senses within Jak. There is an urge to offer help, give comfort, and guidance, but he already has one hurting teenager to save.

“Okay, so no beatdown on your parents,” Davina says around a mouthful of fries. “Then what is going on? And why does it feel like you’re about to drop a huge bombshell on me?” She stabs a black-tipped finger in his direction. “Which is totally unfair, by the way, I just stopped being mad at you.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.” He absently stirs the cream into his coffee. “I should have called sooner, should have been a better friend.” He lets his words hover in the air, giving Davina space to speak, to be angry.

“It’s fine, well, it’s not fine, but I can see something’s changed.” She takes the burger apart, adding chips, just as she always does. “You seem grounded, brave even.” She pauses, taking great care in putting her burger back together. “I wish this didn’t feel so much like a goodbye; I wanted you to be my man of honour.” Her eyes glisten, voice catching as she continues, “but I can see this is important to you, so I support whatever insane choice you’ve made or are going to make.”

“Thank you, De. I wish I could tell you everything, but it would only put you in danger.” He sighed, deflating, anxiety and anticipation rushing out of him. “I will see you again, and when I do you can show me how gorgeous you looked on your wedding day and I will shout you anything you want –“ he taps at the sticky plastic of the diner menu – “for the rest of our lives.”

“You want a favour?” Her tone is unlined with anger, laced with hurt. “Alright-” she takes a deliberate bite of her burger, “-but you better deliver on your promise.” She winks, the action scattering the tension.

“I will.” If he makes it, if one day the Underground can overthrow the Baron, he will. “I swear.”

“Okay.” Davina’s demeanour shifts, the gravity of the situation settling in. “What is it?”

“I need you to hold onto this for me.” Angling his body so no onlookers can see what is retrieved from his satchel, Phoenix pulls out an air-tight plastic bag containing the swabs and samples collected from the make-shift rape kit. Davina’s eyes widen, recognition flickering across her face. “I need you to keep this safe for me, please.” He keeps his tone low; words almost drowned out by the pounding of his heart. “And it’s crucial that you don’t mention this to anyone.”

“Phoenix.” Fear laces his name. “You’re starting to freak me out.” She leans forwards, fair brows furrowing over lavender eyes. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t, De, not yet.” He feels eyes prickle at the back of his neck, but when he dares a glance over his shoulder, the diner is mostly empty, apart from a few regulars and a booth of rowdy teenagers. The Baron has spy’s everywhere, and the chances of them being in a rundown diner late at night are slim, but he won’t put Davina at any further risk. The less she knows, the better. “Please, Davina, I will explain everything when I can, until then, I need you to trust me.”

“Phe, if something happened… if someone hurt you, you can tell me.” Her voice remains strong, though her breathing quickens. “We’ll face this together.”

“Nothing’s happened to me, De, I swear.” With his free hand, he passes the bag under the table, letting their fingers entwine, lingering. “This belongs to someone else. _Someone_ in desperate need of help, but they aren’t in the position to seek it from anyone else.” His free hand curls into a fist. “Not that the KG do anything about crimes like this.”

“Then why give this to me?”

“Because I believe one day, we’ll be able to use it.” He doesn’t know when, at times it feels like Praxis’s tyranny will never end, but the people are getting louder, angrier. Change is coming, and when Praxis and his wicked men fall, Phoenix will be waiting, ready to get Jak justice.

“One day,” she echoed, gripping his hand tight, holding on a precious moment longer before pulling away, leaving Phoenix’s hand empty and cold. “One day could be very far off.” Her voice is thick, a little unsteady.

“It could be,” he admitted, feeling a lump lodge in the base of his throat, “but it will come.”

A tear trickles down Davina’s cheek, reflecting pink than purple, but she smiles all the same. “I’ll hold you to that.”

**~~~~~~~~~~**

It’s late by the time Phoenix arrives at the prison, the winding walk to the infirmary seeming to take hours. He feels heavy, like he’s trudging through snow, bones fused together and sluggish from the cold. His body aches for sleep, gritty eyes blinking rapidly, swelling with tears that have more to do with leaving Davina then the fatigue. Tonight, won’t be the last time he sees her, that is a certainty he can feel in his bones, stronger than the ache and chill.

Phoenix _will_ see Devina again, perhaps sooner than he expects, or on one far off day, when the city has thawed, and the flowers have begun to bloom, spring arriving in vibrant colours. Phoenix needs to believe in this, in a happy ending for all of them. Otherwise, there is no point in rescuing Jak, in giving Davina the evidence to be used against Erol, in falling for Ivan. Phoenix is ready to fight, ready to shatter apart Praxis’s kingdom of ash and bone, dismantle and set alit everything Erol has worked for.

Determination burns through him, chasing the icy tendrils of fatigue from his bones. His sluggish steps turn into powerful strides, the confidence engulfing him in a heady spell of bravado. He feels unstoppable, is charged and ready to fight, to put things in motion. If the escape plan were complete, Phoenix would insist they leave tonight, would ride the wave of courage and fire and spring Jak, _everyone_ , then put a torch to this hellish place. Watch it all come down in flames.

The determination, the reckless abandon follows him through the prison, an ember burning bright against the dark night, only quietening, _softening_ when he reaches the stuffy office. Ivan slumbers at the desk, bathed in the golden flow of the faded blue desk lamp. Phoenix melts at the sight, it’s rare to see Ivan relaxed, vulnerable. He closes the distance between them, heart fluttering like a wild thing, matching the butterfly wings in his stomach.

“I can feel you watching me,” Ivan murmurs, right eye cracking opening.

“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself,” he admitted, lips curling into a warm and playful smile, “you looked so peaceful.” The fiery yarning to destroy, to jump without a parachute fades, a different kind of spark awakening in its place. “Did I wake you?”

“No.” His tone is raspy, gaze glassy, “I was just resting my eyes.” He straightens, shifting back into guard on duty, though his feet remain on the desk, an unamusing statement of comfort and trust. “I never fall asleep on the job.”

Phoenix huffs in amusement, heart stuttering as the warmth envelopes him. He never knew love could feel like this. _Love_ the word springs into his mind from seemingly nowhere, knocking the wind from him. Love… he is _in_ love with Ivan. His heart sputters and skips a beat, the urge to speak, to admit his feelings rising within, but he stomps them down, swallowing the admission, the _revelation_ , afraid to speak it, scared it might doom them.

Cheeks burning hot, Phoenix quickly turns his attention to the window, hoping Ivan doesn’t notice the red spreading across his face. “How’s Jak fairing?” He asked, voice steadier than expected. A few days ago, Jak’s fever spiked, and for a few terrifying hours, Phoenix feared it was dark eco poisoning setting in. Fortunately, Jak is resilient, and the fever broke later that night, though he has been plagued by nausea and headaches since.

“He’s doing a lot better,” Ivan replied, “even managed to keep his dinner down.”

“That’s good.” Relieved, Phoenix sinks down onto the desk, resting a hand on Ivan’s calf. “How are you?”

“Tired as hell.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, stifling a yawn. “How did it go with your friend?”

“Better than I was expecting.” He smiled wistfully, chest swelling with joy and heartache. “She forgave me.”

“Well, who could resist that face?” Ivan teased, arching a dark brow to match the curve of his lopsided grin. “However.” The flirtatious banter falls away, leaving a soft smile that offers comfort if Phoenix were to need it. “I meant did she take the evidence?”

“Oh, right.” He swallowed thickly, rubbing at his tired, watery eyes. “Yes. She’ll keep it safe for us.”

“Do you really think it’ll be of use one day?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, “but it’s worth a shot. Jak deserves justice, and Erol deserves to lose everything.”

“I won’t disagree with that.” Ivan squeezed his hand, warm touch soothing the ache in his chest.

A moment passes between them, silent and serene. “Did you get a chance to see if the warp gate still works?”

“No, I didn’t want to leave the kid, but now you’re back I’ll go check it out.”

“Ivan Dashkov, is that genuine affection I detect in your voice?” The fear Ivan carries is melting, his sharp edges softening over the days. He’s still wary, which is understandable, but he’s less rigid around Jak, more caring. Almost found.

“Shut up,” he said, no real heat to his words. “The kid’s prone to nightmares, I couldn’t leave him alone.”

“A very logical reason.” Phoenix grinned, feeling giddy, love drunk.

Ivan shakes his head, steering the conversation back to its origins. “If the gate is functional, I’ll need to find a safe location for us to travel too,” he continued, “but that shouldn’t be too difficult. There are warp gates throughout the city.”

“Well, it sounds better than my plan.” In true Phoenix fashion, his plan had been to distract, to razzle-dazzle. Ivan had humoured him, laughing, and making suggestions in the dark, naked bodies tangled together under the sheets. In the end, stealth would be their best option. They had to leave without a trace, be ghosts vanishing into the night. However, that didn’t mean they couldn’t put on a show elsewhere. A little distraction goes a long way. “Will you be long?”

“Shouldn’t be.” Ivan smiled, the affection reaching his eyes, turning them into pools of gold. “You gonna be alright without me?”

“I think I can manage,” he replied, heart squeezing in his chest. He’s never felt like this. He wants to capsize in this moment, take Ivan next door and worship him all night. But he is rising, the rescue, _their mission_ and atonement _needing_ to come first – That doesn’t mean they can’t have fun, it just needs to be sidelined, no matter how tempting, _intoxicating_ Ivan is.

“I’ll be back shortly.” Ivan lent forward, cupping Phoenix’s face between his hands as their lips met in a short, tender kiss.

“I’ll be waiting.” Phoenix raised his eyebrows suggestively, keeping Ivan a moment longer, cherishing him with a deep kiss that was all passion and no grace. “Be careful.”

“Always.” He nipped at Phoenix’s bottom lip, promising a return worth waiting for.

Reluctantly, Phoenix let him go, body humming in delight. He wished he could have told Davina about Ivan, about Jak. It hurt like hell to walk away from her, to leave her sitting under the neon lights with tear-streaked cheeks. At home, hidden out of paranoia behind the loose skirting board, is a letter revealing everything he wished could have told her tonight. When the time is right, Phoenix will find a way to send it to her. Until then, he’ll keep these words close to heart, hold tight to the thought, _the hope_ , of a happy ending.


	7. Empty Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s something bewitching about the nights in Haven City, perhaps it’s the glittery, golden streets, the buzz of excitement as people shake off the day and slip off their masks. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that the darkness is the keeper of secrets, the concealer of ill deeds. Erol has firsthand experience with what horrors and delights the nights can bring, he’s watched the chaos unfold from the shadows, stepped into the light, and put an end to brawls and riots. He’s walked the line between hunter and protector, caused anarchy in his youth, and put a violent end to it as Commander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a mild graphic rape scene
> 
> Sorry for the delay! I had to heavily edit this chapter than I got a bit sick, but here it is, at last. Double warning, this is a very dark chapter!

Jak

The night is quite beautiful for such an ugly world – it’s lit by thousands of pretty lights, each twinkling like the stars used to in the clear skies above Sandover. From Jak’s perch on the window ledge, trapped behind the thick glass and separated from land by a stretch of churning black sea, Haven City doesn’t seem like such a terrible place. From what Jak’s heard of it, scrapes of conversations whispered between the guards, snippets of details hissed from Erol or Praxis, Haven is a city on the verge of war.

Haven seems like a place of magic and wonder from this miserable fortress of torture and isolation, not a city of despair and death. Jak likes to imagine that his friends are somewhere safe amongst the pretty lights, that they are hidden away in a home with a burning hearth that they sit by every night. Sometimes he envisions them plotting a daring rescue mission, other times he imagines that he is there with them, drinking hot cocoa by the fire, listening to Daxter tell tales while Keira fiddles with a project and Samos watches over them.

Jak’s gotten quite good at playing pretend, at hiding away in memories of better, _brighter_ days. Maybe, _hopefully,_ soon he won’t have to pretend anymore. If Phoenix is true to his word, _his promise_ , then Jak can stop filling his head with daydreams and fading memories. Two days ago, Jak found himself in Phoenix’s company, which wasn’t unusual, the physician was always coming and going, bringing with him medical devices, and chatting amicably.

Phoenix was almost as talkative as Daxter, though Jak could sense the conversations had a purpose, _direction_. Phoenix was fishing for information, and it was only a matter of time before he struck. Conversations ebbed and flowed as the day passed, Phoenix motivation becoming clear mid-afternoon when the questions started. Phoenix asked about his childhood, his home and family – questions mundane and seemingly harmless, but Jak knew by now that everything and anything could be used against him.

He answered with caution, with half-truths, cobbling together a falsehood, weaving in what little information he knew of the outside world to create a past. He built from the truth that he is an orphan raised by his Uncle and taught by a gruff, wise old man. Life, before he was taken, was peaceful, _safe_. He had a home, two best friends, though he gives no names or descriptions. Everything is answered in short, scribbled replies, details and specifics withheld.

Caught in a swell of frustration, _desperation_ , Jak began to scribble his own questions, jostling emotions spilling out. “Why are you helping me? Why are you working for the Baron?” He demanded, fingers aching from holding the pen so tightly. “Why is Ivan here? How can you trust him?” Anguish and anger poured free from his quivering frame. He felt a violent itch ripple under his skin, electric and dangerous like lightning flashing across the sky, gone just as fast. The burst of rage and bravery burnt out, leaving him dizzy and electric with fear.

Phoenix held his gaze, expression unreadable, which only added to the panic coming to life in Jak’s chest. He shouldn’t have made demands, shouldn’t have rocked the boat, burst the bubble of safety. Phoenix was going to be angry; was going to lash out with fist and taunts, leave more bruises, more scares. The air was trapped in Jak’s lungs, gasoline waiting for a match to strike. He braced for the blow, but it never came. Tugging at Jak’s heart, reawakening a forgotten emotion, _connection_.

Instead, Phoenix took a seat on the bed across from him, the raw vulnerability on his face tugging at Jak’s heart, reawakening a forgotten emotion, _connection_. “I’m helping you because throughout my life I have made a lot of terrible mistakes and selfish choices,” Phoenix replied solemnly. “I tried making a difference when I was younger, but it all went wrong. I was scared after that, _scarred_ , so I kept my head down, buried my shame, my demons.” Phoenix lowered his gaze, face clouding with shame. “I wish I could tell you that I was innocent, that I was forced to work for the Baron, but that would be a lie. I loathe Praxis, and yet here I am-” he gestures at the room, voice twisting with disgust, “-working for him. Helping him.” Phoenix looks up, eyes full of raging fire. “I have looked the other way long enough.” He rises with his words, despair, and sorrow bleeding away, something immensely powerful taking its place. “It's time I make a difference.”

Jak swallowed thickly, heart fluttering wildly in his chest. Could he mean?

“It’s time I do something right.” A smile spreads across his face, benevolent and promising. “Starting with you.”

There it is, hope, a promise that Jak isn't sure he could believe. Could hold onto.

"I’m going to get you out of here, Jak.” He continued; voice full of conviction, like he’d seen their escape in a vision sent by the Precursors themselves. “It’s going to take some time, and we’re going to need assistance from the Underground, but I promise you-” he closes the space between them, hand coming to rest on Jak’s shoulder, “-I will get you out of here.”

Doubt and fear gathered within like a storm, but the determination in Phoenix’s eyes, the weight of his words, give Jak hope. It was thin, _feeble_ , trust not yet solid between them, but it was a start—a spark. The memory trickles away, returning Jak to the window ledge overlooking a city descending into darkness. When Phoenix promised freedom, it had felt like a lie, like another trick to fall for, yet so far Phoenix had given Jak no reason to doubt his sincerity.

He’d shown only kindness, treated him with care and a gentleness Jak had almost forgotten. He fed him chicken soup that tasted almost as good as the one Uncle Halbert used to cook, gave him warm clothes to wear and bought books for him to read. Jak’s fevered haze hadn’t allowed for focus the first few days, so Phoenix would sit at his bedside and read aloud from a thick, leather-bound book titled The Heroic Tales of Mar. According to the history books, Mar was the founding father of Haven City. He’d raged war against the Metal Head’s for years, until eventually, they retreated, leaving Haven City a temporary place of peace.

It all sounds very heroic, like the village boy who travelled far, far to the North to turn his best friend back into a boy. But heroes don’t exist anymore, men like Baron Praxis have seen to that. Phoenix might be acting the part, promising to do something courageous, but Jak is still here. Still tagged and marked as a prisoner. At least Phoenix doesn’t hurt him, nor does the silent, stern guard named Ivan. Jak might not be across the bay, standing in the city of a thousand pretty lights, with his friends, but at least he’s safe. Or the very least not being harmed.

Not being held down.

Jak shudders at the unpleasant memory, shoving it deep down into the darkest pit he can find. He must not give chase, must not hold onto the snapshots of horror that take place in the dead of night. They are just shards of nightmares, _not_ _real_ , not happening to him. _Not the hero_. Focus on the now, on how the city lights twinkle and ripple in the waves. Don’t think about the emptiness, the loneliness, the sorrow clinging to him like cobwebs, filling him with despair, making him chase unpleasant thoughts down dark and treacherous roads.

There is a flicker of white, like lightning in the night the sky than it bursts, saturates, scattering the darkness, the mess of tangled thoughts swirling through his tired mind. Startled, heart leaping into his throat, Jak turns around, body tensed for the worse, but he finds only Phoenix. Deflating, Jak slumps back against the cool glass with a heavy sigh, pointedly avoiding his reflection, afraid to see of the _thing_ staring back.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Phoenix apologised, walking towards him, carrying a steaming mug of what smelled like flora and honey. “Are you alright, Jak?”

Jak’s breathing hitched, stomach clenching as a spike of panic gripped him, it felt strange, after so long, hearing his name. Strange again to not hear it said loudly by Daxter or spoken sweetly by Keira. Phoenix says his name quietly, with care. It was nice to be called by his name, which he guarded closed to his heart, the last feeble link to the boy he used to be.

“Jak?” Phoenix’s tries again, patient as ever. “Orb for your thoughts?” he crocked his head to the side, lips curving into a friendly smile.

Jak can’t muster up the strength to return the smile, his mouth just won’t turn up at the corners, feels pulled down in a permanent display of misery. The muscles won’t even flicker into a fleeting grin. Daxter wouldn’t stand for this; he’d dance or tease or tell jokes until a full-body laugh rumbled from Jak’s belly. Phoenix doesn’t know the tricks or tales that make him laugh, doesn’t know he got stung by whumpbees on his ninth birthday or that he was once afraid of the dark. Phoenix knows little about him because Jak’s not ready to share such stories.

Phoenix, on the other hand, has been very forthcoming. Jak likes hearing about Phoenix’s childhood of adventure tales and tea parties with his grandmother, his teenage years of rebellion and mischief. Phoenix Waterford is not what he seems. Behind the well-manners and polished attire is an honest man trying to do the right thing in a world full of villains and monsters. Yet, doubt lingers, the bruises fading on Jak’s skin painful reminders that strangers have only offered unkindness.

“Here,” Phoenix says a little awkwardly, “I made you some camomile tea.” He steps closer, placing a blue willow mug on the window ledge. “I thought a warm drink before bed might help you sleep a little better.” He leans against the wall, arms folding in a more casual stance.

The corners of Jak’s lips twitch, an almost smile. He nods in thanks than picks up the mug, taking a sip of the sweet liquid. He doubts a warm drink will stop the nightmares, but the thought is appreciated. Phoenix has been incredibly thoughtful, he gives without expecting to receive, doesn’t push or punish when Jak doesn’t respond or answer questions. There is no need for uncertainty, not when every untouched cell and molecule in his body is saying it’s okay to trust him.

Long ago, on one spring evening when the sky was a brilliant orange streaked with pink and violet clouds, the air smelling of jasmine, Samos told Jak to always trust his instincts. The advice was unprompted, but Samos often bestowed pieces of wisdom unexpectedly. Jak could be busy nailing down new planks of wood or lazing on the lawn in the afternoon sun, and Samos would appear out of thin air, staff in hand and rattle off sagely advice.

Daxter would roll his eyes, not heeding Samos’s wisdom. Keira would offer something insightful in return, earning a delighted smile from her father. Jak would stay silent. Words sinking in. Now they echo in his mind, envelop him in warmth. Listening inward, to the beat of his heart, to the voice in his head, Jak decides that it’s time to reach out, to allow himself to trust Phoenix, in the promise he’d made. Rising, Jak makes his way back to the bed, where he left the notepad used to converse with Phoenix. He flips it open to a fresh page and scribbles out a bold question.

_When are we getting out of here?_

“I’m not sure yet,” he admitted, pulling away from the wall, “but I’ll know for certain later tonight.” He rolls up his burgundy coat sleeve, exposing a small clock strapped to his wrist by a fancy silver chain. “I’m heading out in about half an hour to meet up with one of the Underground members.”

Commander Erol often talked about the Underground, voice dripping with hatred, touch growing more violent with his aggression. ‘They are cowards,’ Erol hissed, ‘hiding in the shadows instead of coming out to fight like real men.’ Erol always wants to start a fight, wants to hurt and bruise and control. The Commander is full of violence and rage, and it terrifies Jak in a way he’s never felt before. He doesn’t want to think about the Commander’s anger, it only serves to remind him of the _thing_ he’s meant to be forgetting.

“They aren’t going to be easy to convince,” Phoenix continued, voice pitched low in case someone overheard, not that there is anyone around besides Ivan. This part of the prison is empty, not even the rats or fleas have reached these walls, "and rightfully so, of course.” He clasps his large hands together, the sudden motion making Jak flinch - he is used to hands being raised to strike. “But I will do everything in my power to get you out of here, I promise.”

 _How will you convince them?_ He asked, writing butchered by the tremor in his hand.

“I have some evidence they won’t be able to refute,” he replied, voice full of conviction.

 _What is it?_ Does he want to know? Does it even matter?

Phoenix hesitates, brows knitting together over troubled eyes, he seems to be holding his breath, weighing up something terribly heavy. “It’s your blood,” he said, at last, breath rushing out, “it contains traces of dark eco.”

 _This_ shouldn’t come as a surprise, they’ve been pumping him full of dark eco for months, shooting it into his veins and forcing it down his throat, to collect like smoke in his lungs, and yet it does. It crashes into him, _through him_ , like lightning from a storm. Jak’s head falls forward, a heavy thing to carry, as arms tighten around his stomach, fighting down the churn, the rise of bile, _disgust_. He truly is tainted.

“Jak?” His name, spoken softly like spring currents, cuts through the turmoil. “Are you okay?”

Jak looks up, watery gaze lifting to Phoenix’s face. He nods, once, a lie – a lie he hopes to believe one day.

Phoenix doesn’t buy the lie, it’s evident by the look on his face, by the hand rising, moving towards his shoulder, only to fall away the moment Jak flinches. "I'm sorry, Jak.” He smiles pensively, hands disappearing into the pockets of his coat. "I wish I could fix this for you."

Jak’s throat constricts, chest swelling with something achingly familiar. Compassion feels foreign, sits wrong against his skin, like a sweater made of thistles and weeds. It's better than the violence than the prick of needles and bite of blunt nails. He’s grown accustomed to feeling uncomfortable, he’ll survive the strange itch of kindness.

“I'll get you out of here, Jak,” Phoenix continued, voice full of unwavering conviction. “You’ve just got to hang in there.”

Hang in there, it sounds so easy. Just hang in there, like it’s been a rough day, and when the sun rises tomorrow, everything will be better, his body free of scars and blood clean. Hang on, _hold on_ , fight, _endure_ , that’s all Jak can do. The rest is out of his hands.

 **~~** Erol **~~**

There’s something bewitching about the nights in Haven City, perhaps it’s the glittery, golden streets, the buzz of excitement as people shake off the day and slip off their masks. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that the darkness is the keeper of secrets, the concealer of ill deeds. Erol has firsthand experience with what horrors and delights the nights can bring, he’s watched the chaos unfold from the shadows, stepped into the light, and put an end to brawls and riots. He’s walked the line between hunter and protector, caused anarchy in his youth, and put a violent end to it as Commander.

The night belongs to him, it stretches out around him, offering staggering girls in towering heels and foolhardy young men drunk on spirits. They are all so willing, so easy to sway, to take. Eyes follow Erol as he makes his way through a dense crowd of swaying, sweating bodies. Even in the strobing neon lights of the club, he is recognisable. Women whisper his name to their friends, some in lust, a few in distaste. Those women can't be trusted, they could be spies from the Underground, temptresses out to lure him to a darkened alley where cowardly men lay in hiding.

Lesser men have fallen for these harlots' spells, but trust is not to be given freely in the night; he knows this well because he cannot be trusted either.

A bottle of beer is placed on the countertop before him, coloured strange in the bar's neon lights. Erol does not make a habit of drinking in public places, but tonight he is celebrating. Another race has been won; another trophy added to the ever-growing collection. A drink is in order, just one. There are other ways to celebrate, to release the electric undercurrent of adrenaline crackling beneath his skin. Women and men will be lining up to take him home, willing to do anything to please him, to get in the good graces of a Harker.

He can feel their eyes on him like fire, can smell their eagerness, their _desperation_.

But eager and willing aren’t any fun.

A quick fuck in a bathroom stall or one-night stand doesn’t get his blood pumping like it used to. Taking is so much more fun than asking. He never used to give in to these urges, would find someone willing to fuck rough and fast, only to end up unsatisfied. Then one time, when a starry-eyed boy invited him into an isolated room, he slipped up. The boy just wanted to make out, was shy and innocent, which made him even more tempting. The boy said stop, said he should go, but Erol didn't stop, and he didn't let go, not even when the boy began to struggle, _beg_.

The next morning, when Erol woke with a throbbing head and a dry mouth tasting of beer and vodka, he felt the cold claws of panic wrap around his throat. Would the boy tell? Or would shame, _fear_ keep him quiet. After all, the boy knew he was Erol Harker, and everyone _knows_ the Harker’s are well-liked and respected by the Baron himself. Days past and no one pulled him into a stuffy office to berate him for being careless. No one called him in for questioning – the lies prepared and ready on his tongue. The boy, whose eyes Erol remembered - lilac like the sky at dusk - but not his name, never told a soul. Erol had gotten away with it. Which meant he could again.

And so, he did.

It’s the thrill Erol likes, the power and control. It’s why he joined the guard. Why he climbed the ranks so fast, impressing the Baron and becoming the youngest Commander in Haven’s history. Being the Commander and head of the Dark Warrior Project meant he needed to be more careful, there was so much to lose, so much to throw away for a quick thrill, but then along came the golden-haired teen who quite literally fell from the sky. Erol thought the blind old soothsayer was mad when she said a boy with great gifts would fall from it, but fall he did, out of a burst of bright light, landing right where she said he would. Praxis was eager, _desperate_ , to find a channeler who could survive the dark eco, and this boy, all of fifteen at the time, was their greatest chance.

What Erol didn’t expect was for him to be such a spitfire. No one had fought and resisted as much _he_ had. He, boy, brat, pet, are some of the names Erol uses since the boy is mute and refuses to divulge his name by other means. The former physician found nothing physically wrong with the boy’s vocal cords, and Erol _knew_ he could scream just fine. It wasn’t stubbornness or sheer force of will that kept the boy silent, it was something deeper, something profound, like a wound, like a mark left by trauma.

At times Erol pondered what kind of trauma had stolen the boy's voice, not that it mattered, silent or vocal, the boy was fascinating, was unique with his green roots and dazzling blue eyes that looked like the ocean beyond the city walls. Erol couldn’t resist _him_. He knew it was dangerous to _take_ one of the Baron’s most promising weapons, but he could reason his actions. The boy was too much of a fighter, too brave and golden, Erol had to do something about that.

Three times the pretty brat tried escaping, and each time Erol personally delivered the punishment, ten lashings to the soles of his feet, twenty after the second attempt. By the third time, it was a waste of energy, so Erol decided to give in to his desire and show the boy there were other ways to make it difficult to walk. It was only supposed to happen that one time, a singular punishment, but like a drug Erol was hooked.

If Praxis ever found about his late-night visits, this is the reason he'd give: it was to break him, to show that Erol was the one in control, that the boy's body did not belong to him. _He_ was no longer a person but property. They owned _him_. He was a weapon, a thing for them to use and throw away. It was a punishment, nothing more. Erol’s defence was unnecessary, his men, if they knew, would never turn on him, and it’s not like Erol is the first commander or guard to take advantage of their position of power.

It gets lonely out on the island, and every man has _urges._ The Krimzon Guards carry many secrets, hold them tight just like the night, and if the boy could speak his words would be swallowed by the walls. He was, in every way, Erol’s. 

A wave of desire, _yearning_ crests over him, travelling like electric sparks through his bloodstream, humming under his skin in need of release. He could find someone tempting enough on the dance floor, could charm a pretty thing into taking him home. He could play the gentlemen all the way to the door, become a little rough, a little too much once there was nowhere to run. Regrettable things happen when alcohol is involved, people become foolish, let strangers into their beds. Really, though, they should know better.

He’d leave right after, without a goodbye or a second glance, vanish into the night like a ghost, like he has before. This would not satisfy him, not now he’s realised there is no need to be cautious, to hesitate before taking what is his. He finds great pleasure in taking people part in breaking them down to nothing then rebuilding them in his image. It’s a skill he acquired a long time ago, learnt from a woman he both revered and feared.

The music, if it could be called that, pulsates around him like a beating heart, the air hot and thick with the scent of sweat and sickly-sweet drinks. There’s no point in numbing his desire with shots of tequila, no need to find a fragile, foolish thing swaying on the dance floor. Everything he wants, everything he _needs_ is waiting for him elsewhere. Leaving the bottle half empty, Erol makes his way to the exit, moving smoothly through the intoxicated sea of people.

He arrives at the prison twenty-five minutes later, no one stops him at the security checkpoints or asks why he’s here on his day off. They see the mission in his eyes and wave him on through. This type of power is addictive, it’s a drug so sweet no chemical compound could come close to it. Erol used to have nothing, no control over his life, no title to be proud of, now he is the right-hand man to The Baron, the Commander of the Krimson Guard and the Haven’s undisputed champion. His name is hot on everyone's lips, is known from the glittery high-tops of Upper Haven to the rat-infested alleyways of the slums.

Strolling into the infirmary, Erol finds a guard sitting at the desk, flipping through a magazine. Ian? Ivan? It doesn't matter, he just needs the man to leave. Erol doesn't like an audience, not for these _occasions_.

“Commander, what are you doing here?” The guard's body whips towards him, magazine slipping from his fingers.

Erol senses defiance, the guard should know better than to question the motivates of his Commander. Does he know? The physician might, given the boy was brought in following a late-night visit. No one had reported anything though, no one _ever_ reports anything, or if they do, they are quickly silenced. After all, some men aren't willing to take what they want, so they report the men who do. This guard doesn't look like the latter, but there is something soft about him, a weakness.

“I come and go as I please,” he replied tersely, deciding to test the guard’s loyalty.

“Of course, sir.” He stands, back straight and shoulders squared, like a good solider. “I’m just surprised to see you here, of all places, after winning the big race.” He is back paddling, trying to smooth things over or maybe he is just generally surprised. “I thought you’d be out celebrating.”

“There are many ways to celebrate.” He smirked, gaze darting towards the sleeping boy beyond the window.

The man twitches, skin paling in the low light, he looks like he might protest, might dare to stop Erol from getting what he wants, but that fleeting look of wide-eyed panic is gone, smothered down by a firm nod. “I’ll leave you be then.”

“Wise choice," he says, voice turning sharp, promising misery if he dares speak of this to anyone.

Ivan bows his head, bending to his will, then leaves.

Erol waits for the hydraulic hiss of the door, for the shudder and groan of it opening than closing. Truly alone, he gives his undivided attention to the window, gazing through it to the boy, who looks so vulnerable, so ripe for the taking. Erol steps into the room, tiptoeing as to not wake him. Drawn by lust, by dangerous desire, he moves towards his prey, eager to satisfy his needs. Eyes adjusting to the pale moonlight, Erol notices the boy is uncuffed, it’s nothing worth sounding the alarm over, but it’s against prison policies, given the inmates' instability.

He’ll give it more thought later, for now, the anticipation, the _temptation_ is too strong to resist.

It’s time to celebrate.

 **~~** Jak **~~**

_Wake up._

_Jak!_

_Wake up!_

Jak startles awake, gasping through burning lungs as he jerks upright, body trembling to the core. The warning echoes in his head, an overlapping chorus of voices. His heart beats like a wild thing, fighting against the flood of ice that’s spreading through his veins. Every cell and molecule scream at him to flee, to fight, but it’s too late. Before his eyes can even adjust to the blue-black of the night, he is struck by a violent force. The blow is aimed right at his throat, the strike so powerful it knocks the air from his windpipe.

“Having nightmares again,” a slithering voice whispers, words spoken right at his ear, “are we?”

The bed falls out from under him, the world shrinking until it’s just him and the Commander’s hot breath against his cheek. He’s frozen, paralysed. Yet he can still feel, not just the burn of panic under his skin or Erol’s fingers loosening around his throat, but the sensation of being lain down. No. No, this can’t be happening. He’s supposed to be safe here, safe from bruising hands at the very least. Did Phoenix lie? Is he watching this unfold from behind the glass, is he willingly allowing Erol to touch him?

No!

The haze of panic falls away, darkness shifting as frantic desperation surges through him. Jak lashes out, trashing and bucking and throwing fists into the air, aiming for ribs, kidneys, whatever he can reach. Like a match struck, Jak burns bright, fighting valiantly, but the flame is fragile and Erol impatient.

“Stop moving,” Erol ordered, squeezing Jak’s throat until his vision is swarming with stars, lungs screaming, _begging_ for air.

The spark burns out, leaving Jak an empty husk. He stills. O _beys._

“Good boy,” Erol praised, rewarding him with air and a bitter-tasting kiss. “We don’t have much time,” Erol continues, voice smug and thick with twisted desire, “so I’m afraid this will have to be quick and dirty.”

Giving up, _giving in_ , Jak closes his eyes against the sting of tears, the ache of defeat, and surrenders his body to Erol.

Clothing is hastily torn away, exposing barely healed skin to bruising hands and frigid night air. The sheets rustle and wrinkle as Erol crawls on top of him, the bedframe groaning in protest like it’s trying to speak for him, to say all the things he can’t. Erol doesn’t listen or doesn’t hear it because he is too busy unbuckling his belt, metal on metal a warning of what is to come. Once Jak braced for the pain, muscles so tight that Erol could barely fit inside. It hurts worse to stay, to fight, so, he detaches, receding to a faraway place, chanting, as if casting a spell or giving charge to prayer, not my body, not my flesh, not real, not here _._

Sometimes, like tonight, the world will not fall away, and the walls will not rise to protect him from the burning sensation of intrusive fingers.

 _Not my body_ , he chants, chest swelling with panic as Erol withdraws his fingers, _not my flesh. Not real, not here, not here, not here._

The mantra shatters as Erol enters him, the searing burst of pain ripping a harrowing scream from Jak’s throat, the sound ricocheting off the walls and reverberating in his head like the aftermath of a detonation. No one comes to his aid. Distantly he recalls that Phoenix left for the night, went to speak with a member of the Underground. Phoenix is going to get him out of here, that’s what he said. _Promised_. But Daxter promised that too, long ago, before Jak descended into darkness. That was over a hundred days ago; there are tally marks on his cell wall, a notch for each day but now Jak can’t remember what number he’s up to. 

God, it’s been so long since he’d been outside. Since he felt the breeze, the warmth of the sun. Has Daxter forgotten him, is he even still alive? Will Erol be finished soon? Will he leave when he’s done or take a rest and go again? What is going to happen next? That question is always circling Jak’s mind. What will be next? What kind of pain or torment will come after the current pain and torment? When will it be too much for his body to handle?

Too much dark eco, too much pain, too much, too much, _too much_. 

Erol slams, _rams_ into him, rhythm growing erratic as the end nears. All Jak can do is endure the tearing pain, the burn of legs spread, _forced_ too far apart. He clutches the sheets between trembling fingers, gasping desperately for breath between each brutal thrust. It hurts. It hurts like hell, to the point Jak believes he’ll snap in two. He’s sobbing, trembling right down to the bone, and Erol loves every second of it. There is pain and fear so profound it feels like he might die then there is an explosion of sorts, deep inside, and Erol lets out a cry of pleasure. Slumping forward, Erol falls heavily against Jak, painting in his ear, softening inside him. A few moments later, Erol pulls out. 

It’s over. 

Jak feels dirty and sore. Can feel the Commanders seed, and blood from fresh tears, leaking out of him. 

It’s over. 

He detaches. 

_It’ll never be over._


	8. Point of No Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Phantom Blade hasn’t aged a day, it’s as if time has frozen within these walls, which are still decorated with the same tacky skulls and fraying black sails. The same people sit at the bar, sharing tales and engaging in arm wrestling, while the same deep, velvety voice sings from the jukebox. The mournful song of lost lovers drowned at sea tugs at Phoenix’s heart, and suddenly time is no longer frozen – it’s unravelling. Phoenix is seventeen again, sneaking in with his first boyfriend, who ordered him shots and slipped a hand high onto his thigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely people, firstly I want to say a big thank you for all the wonderful comments, it's really nice to receive positive feedback :) Thank you all for taking the time; I appreciate it.  
> Secondly, I am sorry this chapter is so delayed, things have been a little busy lately, and as I was re-reading this chapter, I decided to edit it heavily. I'm not a hundred per cent happy with the end result, but it was starting to set me back, and I am happy with most of this chapter. Apologies for any grammatical or spelling mistakes, and if there are any forgotten details or repeated things, please let me know. I suffer from mind fog, so it's easy for me to forget or muddle things.   
> Anywho, enough rambling, on with the chapter :)   
> Warnings for a past underage relationship. That's all I can think of, but as always grab a cuppa and enjoy!

Thirteen years ago, as the sun set on a warm summer’s eve, a night of mischief led Phoenix to the harbour, to bar masquerading as a pirate ship. He followed in the footsteps of someone older, lured by sea-green eyes and a devil may grin into the smoky depths of the Phantom Blade. Tonight, he enters in the late hours of a frigid winter night, struggling to hold back forcefully buried memories. He steps in out of the cold, lungs filling with decade-old smoke and treated oak.

The Phantom Blade hasn’t aged a day, it’s as if time has frozen within these walls, which are still decorated with the same tacky skulls and fraying black sails. The same people sit at the bar, sharing tales and engaging in arm wrestling, while the same deep, velvety voice sings from the jukebox. The mournful song of lost lovers drowned at sea tugs at Phoenix’s heart, and suddenly time is no longer frozen – it’s unravelling. Phoenix is seventeen again, sneaking in with his first boyfriend, who ordered him shots and slipped a hand high onto his thigh. 

The song ends, and the memory flickers out like a dying flame, time returning him to the present, to the mission. An ache lingers, an old wound reopened, one that was not never truly healed in the first place. He hoped to avoid returning to this museum of memories, but the Phantom Blade is a renowned safe place for Underground members, the constant chatter and clink of glasses creating the perfect cover for hushed conversations.

He'd first sought out Underground members at the Hip Hog Haven Saloon, the wretched bar at the port owned by Haven City’s notorious crime boss Krew. Ivan warned him against asking Krew for information, but his connections run deeper than the catacombs beneath the city. Blessedly Krew wasn’t there, and Phoenix was able to get some intel from the barmaid. It wasn’t easy, the barmaid, who seemed far too young be working at the Haven Saloon, wasn’t easy to sway. It took persistence, and a long night of fighting down the urge to ask for the top-shelf bourbon, but in the end, she deemed him trustworthy.

‘One of our members will meet you at the Phantom Blade at eight pm, two nights from now,’ she’d whispered, ‘they’ll be at the bar across, sitting in front of the skeleton wearing a red-feathered pirate hat.” She smiled, adding with a friendly wink, ‘you can’t miss him.’

Surveying the bar, Phoenix takes in the patrons, the place is crowded at this time of night, bodies tightly packed in, the air reeking of cigarettes and sweat. Pushing through the crowd, Phoenix follows old footsteps to the bar, finding the familiar skeleton with its red-feathered hat mounted to the bar wall. Phoenix lowers his gaze, taking in the tendrils of grey smoke clouding around a head of dirty blond hair. The Underground member must have felt the questionings eyes burning against their skin because they turn around, revealing narrowed sea-green eyes.

Recognition hits Phoenix with the force of blizzard winds, unravelling memories and feelings he’d buried long ago. It’s been thirteen years since he last saw Jinx, he looks different now, less polished, less charming, but his eyes, which once cast a spell on him, look as beautiful as ever. Phoenix swallows thickly, fighting through the rise of emotions, feeling his palms go sweaty. He doesn’t like thinking about Jinx, or their failed relationship, it leaves him uneasy, sick with heartache and regret.

He was dangerous and charming, all wrapped up in one. Kind of like Ivan. Precursors, he must really have a type. Must really enjoy suffering. Shaking the unhelpful thoughts away, Phoenix steps forward, trying to leave the past behind. The Phantom Blade is a hub of glistening memories of first times, fights and heartbreak. They are scattered around the bar, reality tearing to reveal windows into another life. Phoenix cannot look or else they will ensnare him. He is not here to rekindle a flame that should have never been lit or to reminisce with whoever was left standing after the gunfire.

Phoenix slips into the seat on his right, heart hammering its way into the base of his throat. Out of all his ex’s, it had to be Jinx, the man he met while revelling in his rebellion, whom he left without so much as a goodbye. The universe must be mocking him, punishing him, but perhaps, Jinx being here is a blessing. It might have been thirteen years since they last saw each other, but hopefully, there is still a shred of trust, broken and blackened, between them.

“Jinx.” The name feels strange to say after all this time, loaded. “How are you?”

“Swell,” he replied dryly. “What brings you back to this fine establishment-” he takes a deliberate sip of his beer, “-after all these years?”

Phoenix falters, guilt tying knots in his throat, trapping his voice. Jinx’s guarded expression is unreadable, the lack of emotion in his voice giving nothing away. It's possible that Jinx doesn’t know why Phoenix is here and that he’s about to ask for help. There’s no point wasting time, in flailing in guilt. He swallows the knots, bites the bullet. “I need the Undergrounds help.”

“You, Phoenix Waterford, with your silver spoons,” his voice thickens with venom, eyes darkening as their past swells in the space between them like a storm, “need the Undergrounds help?”

Phoenix flinches, gaze dropping in shame. After the guards opened fire on the protester's Phoenix fled – running back to his lavish life, while the others died in the street or were carted off to be hung in the Crimson Square as a warning to others. Jinx has a right to be angry, Phoenix abandoned him in a time of need, and now he has come crawling back, asking for favours. Phoenix can’t wallow in his guilt or linger in the blood-soaked past, Jak’s life hangs in the balance, and right now, it’s in Jinx’s hands.

Swallowing his pride and his own bitter feelings, he looks up. “Jinx, I am deeply sorry for leaving the way I did. After what happened…” his throat tightens, squeezed by the ghosts of the slaughtered. “I was frightened, ashamed, and I couldn’t bring myself to go back.” Their deaths cannot be undone, but maybe, _just maybe_ by saving Jak, he can atone for his sins. “You have a right to be upset with me, but please-” he places a hand over his heart in a display of vulnerability, it beats like a wild thing beneath his palm – “this is a matter of great urgency.”

Jinx takes a slow drag of his cigar, exhaling the smoke in thick, pungent puffs of grey clouds. “Sure, whatever,” he said, shrugging, words underlined with something deeper, _darker_. “Water under the bridge and all that.” He stamps out the cigar in an overflowing clam-shaped ashtray. “So, what’s it you need help with Preppy?”

Phoenix heart lightens at the use of the old pet name, infuriating as it may be. “I have information directly from the Baron’s prison that I am willing to trade for a favour.” (Phoenix answered, grimacing at the use of the irksome nickname, Precursors how did he ever find this man attractive? His suave charm feels insufferable through older eyes.)

“What kind of favour?”

Phoenix chances a glance around the room, most of the patron are caught up in their own affairs, but he’d rather move this conversation to somewhere private. “Is there somewhere else we can talk?”

“Sure.” Jinx throws back the last of his beer than stands, nodding for Phoenix to follow.

He leads him to the back of the Phantom Blade, to a storage room set up as a makeshift office. There is barely enough space to walk, the crates of beers, ciders and wines have overflowed onto the pathways and taken up residence on the wooden desk and swivel chairs. Jinx steps over the boxes with practised ease, snatching up a beer and cider as he makes his way to the other side. Phoenix fumbles in his footsteps, hearing bottles clink and clatter as he crosses the short distance. Setting aside the dusty box of merlot, he takes a seat, swivelling to face Jinx, who’s sliding an apple cider across the table to him.

“Thanks,” he accepts the bottle, opening it without taking a sip. “Not just for the drink, but for hearing me out.”

“Well, I’m curious-” Jinx leans back, kicking his feet up on the desk “-how exactly did you end up with information from the Baron’s prison?”

“I’m working there,” he replied, “as a physician.”

“Wow, impressive,” he says with sincerity.

“The rumours are true.” There is no point setting up the tragic reality that is the Baron’s prison. It’s best to cut straight to the point. “The Baron is conducting dark eco experiments on a select group of inmates. I have treated them, watched three young men die of dark eco poisoning.” His throat catches, memories of agonised screaming writhing, dying men flickering in the back of his mind. He takes a sip of cider to steady himself. “There is a boy, only sixteen years old, being held there, and I want to get him out.” I’m going to get him out, he adds silently, body humming with conviction. He won’t fail Jak. “But I need the Undergrounds help to hide us afterwards.”

Jinx stares at him, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

“I know this sounds insane, that it’s treason, but we have to help this boy.” He rushes on, not wanting to give Jinx a chance to speak yet, to deny him help. “The guards are beating him, starving him, torturing him with dark eco.” There is a desperate edge to his words, his father always said emotions got the better of him.

“Why is the kid so important?” Jinx asked brows pinched over troubled eyes, “And what about the others?”

“There is no hope for them,” he replied solemnly. “The dark eco will kill them if it hasn’t already.” He lowered his gaze, regret gathering in his chest. He can’t help them, but he can save Jak. “The kid is different, though.” He looked up, letting fire scatter the regret, give him strength. “He is a channeler.”

Jinx looks for a moment like he might call bullshit, might draw the line here and tell him to get the hell out. He wouldn’t be wrong to do so. This, _this_ is a lot to believe. Jak is a legend, a tale told around campfires during stormy nights when children can’t sleep. To some, who have lost faith in the old world, who think eco isn’t something mystical and divine, channelers are just myths. To others, who have faith, who have poured through now forbidden books, a channeler is akin to a God.

“Say the kid is a channeler,” Jinx’s tone is threaded with scepticism, yet he continues, indulging him, “that won’t stop the dark eco from killing him.”

“And yet it’s not.” Phoenix reaches into his coat pocket, retrieving the vial of blood collected from Jak when he first arrived at the infirmary. “He _is_ channelling it.” Holding it up to the light, violet can be seen swirling through the crimson. It's eye-catching, almost beautiful, unquestionably a marvel. Jak’s blood is merging with the dark eco, it’s spreading through him like leukemia, only his body isn’t trying to fight it. It’s becoming one.

“Holy shit.” Jinx falls forward, any remaining shred of calm and collect shattering. “The Shadow was right.” He murmured, eyes blowing wide as a new sense of reality slams into him. “I used to think channelers were just fables.” He reaches for the vial, plucking it with the utmost care from Phoenix’s fingers. “But then I met the Shadow, thought he was mad at first, what with talking to trees and rocks, but he’s opened my eyes to some really crazy stuff.”

“The Shadow is?” Phoenix has heard whispers of the Shadow, he is even more elusive and slippery than the Underground, but whispers echo in Haven, reach every corner and doorstep.

“Nice try,” Jinx smirks, tucking the vial into his ratty coat pocket. “I’ll take this back to base and inform the Shadow; he’ll be very interested to know what the Baron is up to.”

“He’ll help, right?” Panic ceases him, adding a frantic edge to his voice. “Jinx, please, we can’t leave this kid with the Baron, if the dark eco doesn’t kill him, it could very well turn him into something dangerous.” If it hasn’t already, the scratch marks on the door are a constant reminder of what Jak could become. “Praxis cannot be allowed to have a living weapon like that to use against the people.”

“Hey, easy.” Jinx reaches across the desk, placing a reassuring hand on Phoenix’s wrist. “Look, I will talk to the Shadow, see what he’s willing to do, but it might be just easier to…” he trails off, expression saying what his words do not.

“There is still hope for him,” Phoenix insisted, knowing it in his heart to be true.

“Well, we’ll see.” Jinx squeezed his wrist, it means something, though Phoenix reaching, getting lost in the past. “I doubt the Shadow will want us to kill a kid.” He pulls away, leaning back in the chair with folded arms. “You’re just asking for protection, right? You got the prison break covered?”

“I’m working on it.” Well, Ivan is working on it, though he can’t say as Ivan insisted on keeping his part in the escape a secret in case it hurt their chances. Ivan will be a surprise, a tag-along that rocks up when it’s too late to refuse them. 

“Alright,” he shrugged, unbothered by the lack of details, “good enough for me.” He pulled open the desk drawer, rummaging around in it for a moment. “Here, take this.” He slid a battered-looking pager across the table. “I’ll contact you when I have an answer.”

Phoenix picks up the device, holding onto it like a lifeline. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Preppy.” He offers a slight grin to ease the tension, then holds out his beer. “Whatya say, a drink for old times’ sake or the very least to calm the nerves?”

“Sure.” Phoenix raises his cider, clear liquid sloshing around inside. “To freedom?” They used to say this, followed by a clink and a hearty roar of war cries.

Jinx’s grin brightens and for a moment, under the dull light that falls across Jinx’s face, he looks twenty-five again, and Phoenix feels seventeen and full of hope.

“To freedom.”

**~~~~~~~~~~**

Phoenix is awoken in the dead of night by a loud vibrating beep, the familiar sound plunging him into the past. The warm-toned walls fall away, the king-sized mattress shifting into the hard, narrow beds of the on-call room. He fumbles in the dark, covers twisting around his legs like vines. A hush falls over the room, the only disturbance his rapid breathing and rustles of sheets. Wrangling himself free of the covers Phoenix reaches through the darkness, fingers grabbing at a paperback book and ceramic mug before curling around the pager. He takes a depth breath in preparation, the late hours of the night are can bring untold chaos, and turns the communicator right side up, squinting in the dark at the bright blue screen.

**Come to Mar’s Memorial Park immediately. I’ll be waiting at Mar’s Memorial Garden**

Lucidity slams into Phoenix, scattering the memory woven darkness. This is not a cramped on-call room, and he isn’t an overworked twenty-four-year-old being summoned to an emergency, this is home and where he must he go holds more uncertainty than any hospital ever could. He rises with determination, gathering his belongings with practised speed and accuracy. Layered against the biting winds, Phoenix sprints through the apartment, out the front door and into the hall.

He pauses, scanning the dimly lit hallway for threats. The neighbouring apartment doors remain closed, the night silent apart from faint music drifting eerily from the floor below. Satisfied it’s safe, Phoenix takes off, urgency steering him towards the stairwell. He descends swiftly, boots echoing in the night, a little too loud, a little too like gunshots. No. The past is already written, pages bond in a book, there is only forward.

Phoenix steps outside, the winter wind crashing into him, carrying snowflakes and the scent of smoke and fumes. Bracing against the gale, he crosses the empty street, heading towards the park's entrance. During the warmer seasons, Mar’s Memorial Park is a beautiful, lively place to visits. The park which stretches for almost two blocks, hosts fairs and markets, the soft green grass and shimmering ponds making it perfect for picnics at all hours. In the depths of a harsh winter, it’s radiant beauty, and dazzling nightlife are swept away by darkness and ice.

In a few weeks, the Yuletide fair will arrive, returning life and colour to the nights for a brief period, until then the park is a barren ice-land. A shiver creeps up Phoenix’s spin as he passes through the open gates, the wrought iron curls up into the night like gnarled fingers, an ominous invitation into the dark. Shoulders hunched against the chill; Phoenix follows the winding cobblestone path deep into the park. He finds comfort in recalling The Heroic Tales of Mar, the stories told in his grandmother’s expressive voice.

She echoes to him from the past, from the night sky above, giving comfort and strength. Phoenix looks up through the sparse branches, taking in what little can be seen of the night sky.

“I hope I can make you proud,” he whispers into the night, feeling a little foolish when only silence is returned.

Shaking away the spell and tales, he quickens his pace, the fleeting moment of tranquillity over, lost to the cold, dark night. The trees begin to thin and part, opening like a narrow mouth to reveal what’s left of Mar’s Memorial. Even in spring, when the park is abundant with life and colour, Mar’s Garden is withered and eroded. Praxis has left this once glorious garden to decay, willfully allowing the city’s heritage to be forgotten.

Gaze sweeping over the ruins, Phoenix spots Jinx leaning against the vine tangled arbour, the red ember of his cigar burning against the dark. Phoenix walks over to him, stopping just out of range of the toxic smoke. He feels a little dizzy, _unsteady_ , the night becoming dreamlike. Reaching out, he touches the knotted wood of the arbour, needing something real, _solid_ to hold onto. He exhales shakily, the plums of breath mingling with the tendrils of smoke.

Jinx regards him with concern through the haze, but remains silent, ever the observer of chaos.

Phoenix straightens, pulling frayed tethers together, hoping to appear more confident and put together than he feels. “I take it this means you’re willing to help?” He doesn’t dare speak above a whisper, the night may seem empty, but the Baron has spies everywhere. Human and machine.

“It’s looking likely.” He grins, cocky and self-assured, at ease while Phoenix is wound tight. “My Commander wants to meet with you.”

“Now?”

“No, tomorrow.” Jinx rolls his eyes. “Of course, now. Unless you’re chickening out.”

“No.” His answer is sharp, _final_.

“Alright, geez,” he mumbles around the butt of his cigar. “You’re wound tight these days.” Jinx reaches into the pocket of his parker, retrieving a silver flask. “Here, take a sip, it’ll calm the nerves.”

Phoenix takes the flask, taking a cautious sip, tasting cheap rum. The sip turns into a swig, the rum burning all the way down, sending a pleasant warmth throughout his frozen limps. “Thanks.” He says, handing the flask back to Jinx, ignoring how the tremor has eased from his hand.

“Anytime.” With one last puff of his cigar, Jinx flicks the stub into the darkened edge of the path. “Alright, let’s not be here.” He strides under the arbour, stopping to glance back. “You coming?”

It’s two steps, the world no different on the other side, yet Phoenix knows, deep down in his cold and haunted bones, that this is the point of no return. And that's fine. He’s not turning back now, no matter how monstrous the fear, how great the sacrifices - he walks under the arbour, stepping bravely into a new life.

****

Phoenix paces restlessly, wearing tracks in the concrete floor of the basement. The dim lights overhead sway as a cold draft carries through the room, rattling the edges of discarded newspapers. Coming to a stop, Phoenix casts his eyes to the cracked floorboards above, heart heavy as his mind drifts across the bay, to the prison. He pictures Jak and Ivan, both shadowed in darkness and pain, so wildly different from each other yet connected by him.

He hopes they’re okay, that Jak is sleeping without the disturbance of nightmares, and that Ivan hasn’t run himself ragged with worry. These are frail hopes – Jak’s sleep is never without interruption, and Ivan’s brow is permanently knitted in concern. This is going to change, not right away, Jak’s trauma runs deep, and Ivan is wound so tight with conflict that it’ll take years to unravel. That’s okay, they are all a little broken, a little haunted. They just need time.

Phoenix exhales a shaky breath, to his left Jinx slouches on a battered cardboard box, puffing away at a freshly lit cigar, the smoke giving him a headache. Rubbing at the dull ache forming between his eyes, Phoenix resumes his pacing, nervous energy quick to return. He trusts that Ivan is taking care of Jak, that _they’ll_ through the night get him out of that wretched place regardless of tonight’s outcome - this unwavering belief doesn’t stop the pounding of his heart or release the tension from his chest.

Fear is an unpredictable storm, it comes with reason and without, tugged free by ghosts of the pasts, awoken by primal instinct. There is everything to fear while living in a world ruled by monsters and monstrous men. Phoenix pace quickens, fingers flexing, nails biting into the flesh of his palms. Wordlessly, Jinx appears at his side, offering him the flask. Phoenix itches to take it, to let the cheap rum chase away the raw anxiety and steadily growing headache. He’s already had one sip, two couldn’t hurt, not on a night like this, with the air is frigid and the weight of a life resting on his shoulders.

No, he can’t give in to the temptation, to his inner demons, Jak and Ivan are counting on him.

Voice caught in throat; Phoenix declines the offer with a firm shake of the head. Jinx nods respectfully, returning to his seat. Phoenix resumes pacing, trembling hands tucked deep into his pockets. He turns to Jinx for distraction, he looks older in this light, eyes wrinkled around the edges and forehead creased with frown lines. He’s flipping through the pages of a tattered newspaper, the rustle of the paper disturbing the otherwise silent night.

“How did you know where I lived?” He found himself asking.

“We did a background check on you,” he says, like it’s the most obvious answer, “we had to make sure you weren’t setting us up.” He looks up, mouth curving into a crooked grin “Though I vouched for you.” He winked. “Guess it pays that we dated, aye?”

Dated, he dated this man, though date feels ill-fitting. They have history, they have shared memories of drunken nights and fights, getting high and fucking in gritty places. At seventeen, Phoenix’s foolish heart told him what they had was love, but in truth, it was infatuation, was a desperate need for affection. Jinx was part of the rebelling, part of the fuck you to his parents, to his social status. It wasn’t all madness and lust, there are scattered memories of date nights at the Phantom Blade that ended with long walks home and bellies full of yakow beef rolls.

Moments sit upon a shelf collecting dust - cold, rainy days curled up in bed, Sundays playing board games, Tuesday nights chilling at the laundromat and thinking about treason. Their past is broken and stained, but the cracks shimmer and glow, a reminder that sometimes, just sometimes, there is bad within the good.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely, chest swelling with warmth. “I appreciate this, Jinx.”

“Yeah, well, I owe you,” he muttered, gaze downcast, the sense of something unspoken rising between them.

“What do you mean?” he asked, brows pinched in puzzlement. “I’m the one who left.”

“You were a kid, and I was an adult." Jinx’s voice is cut through with something raw, earnest. “I never should have messed around with you.”

“I'm the one who lied about my age, Jinx.” He’d always looked older thanks to his height and build, his mature sense of style aiding the illusion. “You are not to blame.”

“Oh c’mon, Phoenix-” Jinx falls back against the pillar, - “I knew you were young and looking for trouble. I liked the attention, the thrill.” He scrubs a hand over his face, exhaling loudly. “Look, I’m trying to apologise, will you just let me?”

“Right, of course,” his lip curl into a half-smart grin, “go right ahead.”

“Glad to see you’re still a little shit,” Jinx jested, gaze sweeping over him from to head to toe, taking him in anew. “Well, maybe not so little. Anyway –” he leans forward, holding Phoenix’s gaze – “I’m sorry.”

“And you’re forgiven.”

“Fantastic.” Back to his old self, Jinx flashes a grin, arms folded as he leans back. “Now, will you come take a seat already? You’re making me anxious.”

Phoenix complies, taking a seat on one of the boxes, it sags a little under his weight, but it’s a relief to be sitting after the long walk through the slippery streets. He leans back against the concert pillar, gaze lifting to the creaking floorboards above, dust showering the floor below. Out of sight, a door swings open on squeaky hinges, then there are footsteps on the stairs, even and light like a marching soldier. A moment later, a tall, lean man appears, strolling into the room's centre, where he comes to a stop, hands tucked behind his back.

His presence fills up the room, an invisible force that makes the air crackle. This man is used to having power and control, to weaving it like eco. This comes as no surprise, given the grey markings on the man’s pale face. Jinx did warn him the man had once worked for the Baron, he failed to mention that he was an ex-KG Commander – his rank tattooed on the sharp angles of his face.

Casting judgment and suspicions aside, Phoenix stands, hand extended. “Thank you for meeting me. I’m incredibly grateful for your assistance.”

The man’s eyes narrow, icy gaze full of disdain. “I haven’t said we’d help you yet,” he said, voice raspy, raw, vocal cords sounding like they’d been shredded. “We don’t usually do rescue missions.”

“We just need a hideout,” he assured, refusing to let the prickle of anxiety derail him, “I can handle the escape.”

“Really?” There is a hint of mirth to the man’s voice. “You’ve figured out how to smuggle a prisoner out from a fortified fortress, past several layers of security and across the bay, which is known for its deadly currents?” The man arches a hairless brow, thin lips curling into a smug smile. “Impressive.”

Fucking fantastic, the man he needs help from is a smug bastard, typically really, it took a certain edge to join the Krimzon Guard. Thankfully, Phoenix knows to deal with cocky, self-assured assholes. Hell, he’s been one. “There is a deactivated warp gate located in the bowels of the prison,” he explained, hands clasped behind his back, “which I plan on using for our escape. I just have to finalise where we’ll be coming out.”

“Is that so?” The man strokes his chin in consideration.

“C’mon on Torn, give him a break,” Jinx interjected, waving a hand about. “If he says he can get the kid out, he can get the kid out. We just gotta supple the safe house.”

Torn’s head swivels in Jinx’s direction, lips curling into a snarl.

“I’m just saying.” He sags back against the wall, puffing sullenly on a cigar.

“Is the kid showing signs of changing?” Torn inquired.

“No,” the lie falls from his tongue with ease, “he’s not.”

“Are you sure the dark eco isn’t killing him?” Torn pressed, “I’d hate to waste valuable resources.”

“You won’t be,” Phoenix assured, stamping down the simmering rage. “I’ve treated three men who succumbed to dark eco poisoning and apart from a chest infection and malnourishment the kid is otherwise healthy.” He pauses, studying Torn, pegging him for a devout, righteous man. “According to legend, he isn’t the first person to survive being exposed to dark eco.”

“Funny,” Torn murmured, piercing gaze pinning Phoenix in place, “how bedtime stories turn out to be true.”

“Yeah, yeah all the legends are real,” Jinx blurted, rolling his eyes in impatience. “It’s late, and I’m freezing my balls off, so can you please just decide if we’re gonna help or not because I’d like to home and get some shut-eye.”

Torn turns a seething gaze towards Jinx, who responds by flipping him off.

“I’m sorry, but is this not important to you?” He’s had enough of this. The night is slipping away, and all he's gotten for his effort is a headache. “Do you really want Praxis to have a dark eco soldier at his disposal?” Anger leaks into his voice, that quiet rage of his simmering below the surface. Be polite Phoenix, smile, be silent, don’t make a scene, those were his orders, given by his father, sometimes followed by the crack of a belt. He toed the line for seventeen years, took his punishments like one day they’d make a difference, enough hits, and he’d never mess up again.

In the end, he boiled over, the spark of rebellion stoked by a hundred lashes. Torn doesn’t remind him of his father, not really, he’s sharp angles and bony limbs whereas his father is large and towering. Yet, those tucked away memories resurface, intensifying a buried rage. There was no one around to protect him from his father’s wrath, or his mother’s scorn, no one to offer comfort until Jinx came along. Jinx was the wrong kind of comfort, but at the time, it was precisely what he needed. A release, a cause, a fight.

He’s got to do better, _be_ better for Jak.

“Praxis won’t hesitate to turn this kid against us.” If Jak survives the dark eco, the cruel things done to him, then Praxis and the Commander will mould him into a killer, into a monster. “We are all in danger, can’t you see that?”

Torn stare’s him down, voice giving way no emotion when he says, “If this kid is so dangerous, then maybe I should just have him taken out.”

The anger flickers, burns, curling his fingers into fists. He must remain calm. Must get Torn to see that Jak deserves a chance to live, to heal. “The dark eco hasn’t altered him into anything dangerous.” Yet, he adds silently. _Yet_ , such a loaded word, filled with possibilities. “Besides, how are you going to have him taken out?” he is sneering, anger twisting hotly in his gut. “He’s in a fortified fortress, past several layers of security and across the bay.” He throws Torn’s words back at him, tone biting and almost child-like. “Which is known for its deadly currents.”

Torn steps forward, eyes narrowing, darkening. “I have more connections, then you can imagine.” He jabs a finger into Phoenix’s chest, right above his pounding heart. “I could have him snuffed out before you even make it home.” It feels like a bluff, an impossible display of power, but he doesn’t know how deep the Underground’s connection go and he’s not about to throw away his only chance of saving Jak. “You are in no position to be pissing me off.” Torn jabs him again. “I know exactly what the Baron is capable of.” The anger wanes, slipping from his face, making the sharp angles look less violent. Torn steps back, hands coming to rest on the red neckerchief tied around his thin neck. He tugs the material down, revealing a jagged red line that runs horizontally across his throat.

Phoenix winces at the gruesome sight, at the roughness of the scar, whoever patched him up wasn’t skilled in their suturing. It’s a miracle Torn’s alive, had the cut been an inch lower it wouldn’t be standing here.

Satisfied Torn secures the neckerchief back around his throat, levelling him with a firm stare. “This was my price to pay for leaving the guard.” The coarseness of his voice sounds more intense, more defined. Perhaps this wasn’t an attempt on his life, but a punishment, a barbaric method to silence him. “If Praxis finds out about this, he will kill you,” he pauses, letting the silence build thick with tension, “but first you will be interrogated, and it won’t be a cosy little chat. They will make you talk.”

He shivers, shrinks, mind flecked with unpleasant images of grisly torture methods. “I’ve seen men bruised and broken, scarred and mutilated. Violated.” He knows this could end in blood and violence, with him strung up in the Red Square, but he’s willing to take the risk. “I know what the guard are capable of, what could happen to me if I’m caught.”

“And yet, you are still willing.” There is a touch of lightness to Torn’s tone, something akin to praise or surprise, either way, he’s swaying, relenting. “Alright, we’ll help you.”

Relief cuts through the tension, allowing Phoenix to draw in a breath he didn't realise he was holding. He deflates, grateful, speechless.

“This isn’t a free service,” Torn added, “you will be indebted to us, understand?”

He wasn’t expecting to be asked for something in return, but everything comes with a price, and his medical skills could be of significant use to the Underground. Inclining his head in a bow of agreement, allegiance, he says “I understand.”

“Good.” Torn nods sharply. “Jinx will be in contact with you once we have a safe house organised. In the meantime, try not to arouse suspicion, just go about your daily routine, and everything should go smoothly. Any questions?”

“How long do you think this will take?” Excitement is taking over, jostling with the raw nerves in his stomach. “The kid’s in pretty bad shape, the sooner we get him out, the better.”

“Hopefully, it shouldn’t be more than a few weeks,” he replied. “These things take time, but we’ll work as quickly as we can.”

A few weeks? He won’t be able to keep Jak in the infirmary that long. He’s not safe in his cell, where the Commander can reach him. He’ll have to think of something, a reason for Jak to stay longer. At this moment, he is teetering on the edge of exhaustion. This emotional roller-coaster of a night has left him drained, close to swaying where he stands.

“Thank you,” he says, offering his hand to shake, to seal the deal.

Torn takes it, grip strong, hand cold and smooth. “Don’t thank me yet,” he says, smiling lopsidedly, or maybe it’s just the shadows distorting his thin lips. “This could still go horribly wrong.”

“I have faith that it won’t.” And he means it, feels it in his bones. This will not end in blood and violence, there has been enough of that, enough pain given for a dozen lifetime, this time will be different.

**~~~~~~~~~~**

Morning arrives too soon; Phoenix’s head has barely touched the pillow when the alarm goes off. He’d given anything for a few more hours of sleep, to stay cocooned in the covers, but he must rise, shake off the cobwebs of the night and face the waiting day. It’s still dark when he steps outside twenty minutes later, cradling a large flask of strong coffee and breathing in the frigid, thin morning air. His body is stiff, sluggish as he makes his way to the bus stop, it’s only a street away, but the chill and exhaustion make it feel like he’s trudging through deep water.

The airbus arrives, a swath of crimson appearing out of the morning fog. Phoenix takes his usual seat towards the back, eyes fixed on the frosted window, the city passing by in blurred streaks of light and metal. Thirty-five minutes later he arrives at the bay, is ushered inside, frisked, and shoved in line for the warp gate. This routine

has become familiar, the guards accustomed to his polite demeanour, his friendly smile.

This morning feels different though, every shuffled step, every tick of the clock winding him tight. Sweat beads on the back of his neck, the stuffy air pressing in around him, suffocating. Unsteady, his stomach rolls like the churning sea outside, vision swaying under a wave of fatigue. He can rest soon, will be out of sight in the farthest reaches of the prison. Ivan will make him tea, perhaps some breakfast, which he can eat with Jak as he shares the good news.

Strength returns in a warm burst, carrying him through the warp gate and to the other side. The guards wave him through the second checkpoint, no second frisk, no double security check, they trust him. It’s a terrible mistake on their behalf to assume he is another wheel turning in the machine, to be fooled by his charm and family name. His privilege has afforded him protection in the past - money buys silence in Haven City, it’s why he was able to leave his rebel days behind without consequence – and the charm built over the years can cast a spell on nearly anyone.

He knows how to appear unassuming, how to be bold and bright. He can’t command attention, respect the way his father can, but he knows how to dazzle, a gift bestowed upon him by Grandma Waterford. Unnoticed, he slips outside, another body moving through the sea of crimson, ascending the stone steps like a mindless ant following a trail of breadcrumbs. Once inside, a chill sets in, skin prickling under the ever-watching Krimzon Eyes.

Holding tight to thoughts of Ivan, to the excitement of revealing the good news to Jak, Phoenix sets a steady pace through the prison. In a few weeks, he won’t have to walk through these dark, dank corridors, won’t have to smell the harsh salt air. Going into hiding will be difficult, will be stressful, but at least he, they won’t be here, in this place of death and decay. It’s not going to be a grand adventure, there will be no cosy places to hide away in, and it’s not going to feel, be freedom - no one will be free until Praxis is dead - but it will be close.

It’ll be something better than this.

Phoenix comes to a stop, waiting impatiently for the security door to open. Heart beating in joy, in eagerness to see Jak and Ivan, to tell them of the night he’s had, he darts through the door the second it’s open wide enough for him to do. No longer under the watchful Krimzon Eyes, he smiles freely, relief washing over him, filling his lungs with breath and heart with hope. Walking on air, he steps into the office, the sight before him ripping the smile from his face, shattering the relief, the excitement, turning it to ash.

Ivan is slumped at the desk, bloodshot eyes fixed on empty space, the expression on his ashen face turning Phoenix’s stomach. The air reeks of whiskey and shame, echoes of untold horror. Phoenix’s gaze darts to the observation window, to the infirmary beyond. Jak’s bed is empty, the covers rumpled like there was a struggle. Phoenix’s heart plummets to the pit of stomach, body lurching forward into the ward like it will make Jak appear.

But he’s gone.

The sheets are cold to the touch, stained with blood and other bodily fluids. For a dizzying moment, Phoenix is suspended in horror. His knees grow weak, vision blurring as the world spins madly around him. He sways dangerously, inhaling deeply, the scent of sex and sweat clogging up his nose. He gags, trembles, feels something within him snap. The icy panic turns to fire, anguish to a mighty rage, which burns violently and righteously through his veins. Body moving on its own accord, Phoenix storms from the room to the next, grabbing Ivan by the collar of his uniform and hauling him to his feet.

“What did you do?” Deep down, he knows Ivan is not personally responsible for this, but his rage is limitless, relentless. “Where is Jak?”

“Calm down,” Ivan shoves him away, hazel eyes darkening to pools of seething liquid. “I had no choice.” He straightens his jacket, brushing off Phoenix’s anguish with a callousness that cuts like a knife. “If I tried to stop him, then it would have arisen suspension.” His handsome face contorts into something unrecognisable, _monstrous_ , ugly, harsh words spoken through clenched teeth “I had no choice.”

“Bullshit!” he roared, “you could have thought of something.” He throws his hands in the air, frustration and anger boiling over. “You could have done something!”

“There is no lying to the Commander.” Colour returns to Ivan’s eyes, revealing regret, remorse, it does little to calm Phoenix’s storm. “I fucked up, okay.” His voice breaks, the heartless monster swept back into the dark, where Phoenix never knew it dwelt, not like this. “I should have done better. I’m sorry.”

Bristling, choking on anguish, Phoenix recoils, rejecting the apology. “Sorry doesn’t fix this.”

“Nothing’s broken,” Ivan insists. “I know where Jak is, we can still get him out of here.”

The anger falters, Ivan is right, it’s still possible to free Jak, and given the terrible treatment in this place, it probably wouldn’t be long until he is returned to them. There is no comfort in this thought, it only serves to turn the anger into hurt, into despair. Phoenix knew he couldn’t keep Jak here indefinitely, though he would have tried. Did Ivan even fight for Jak? Did he take more than a moment to decide to walk away and leave him to the Commander’s mercy? The guilt shimmering in his eyes, the stench of whiskey on his breath says otherwise.

“You’re wrong,” Phoenix said, feeling the earth splinter and crack beneath his feet, a bottomless chasm opening between him and Ivan. “We’re broken.” With that, he walks away, leaving Ivan to his misery, the way he left Jak to the cruel hands of the Commander.


	9. A Dangerous Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cold is relentless tonight, it seeps down into Jak’s bones, leaving him shivering, sifting through a tired mind, in search of memories of warmth. He remembers roaring fires and the summer sun beating down on his skin, can almost smell the kindling, the salty air of a balmy day. Within his mind, there are arms to hold him, hands offering blankets knitted with love. There is warmth and comfort in the distance, shimmering like a lost treasure, like hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for very brief mention of rape  
> Not beta'd, but I do try my best :)   
> I'd also like to give another big thank you to everyone reading/commenting on this fic! Thank you so much for your support and kind words <3

**Jak**

There is darkness again. Not the pitch-black nothing of the witching hour, but the charcoal darkness of a cramped space lit only by the smallest amount of dying daylight that creeps in through a window to high up to see out of. Jak shivers in the coldness of the cell, the threadbare blanket offering little warmth. His body aches in unpleasant ways, in undesirable places, it begs for sleep, for _relief_ , but his eyes won’t shut. They are glued to the tally marks on the wall, uncertain of what they are seeing.

There are one-hundred and fifty-eight notches on the wall, but Jak is sure at least five or more days have passed since he last carved a tally into the cinder block. He remembers warmth, remembers a soft voice telling him tales of a great warrior named Mar. His skin had been clean, there was a window overlooking a dazzling city of lights. He was shown kindness, given chicken soup and sweets. There was a young man, dressed as elegantly as he spoke, who gave him a promise.

The promise of freedom.

Jak had believed him, believed _in_ him, but now there is darkness again, now the air is cold and sharp, smelling of dark eco and sweat and _reeking_ of Erol. The last few days feel like a dream, and the more Jak tries to remember, _unfold_ them, the more he is convinced it never happened. It was too good to be true; an almost safe place couldn’t possibly exist in this hellish fortress. It must have been a dream, a grand delusion conjured by the fever.

Phoenix, the brave and compassionate physician, was just a trick of his mind, a desperate attempt to hold onto hope. An escape from the pain, from the terrible things that happen to him in the dead of night. He is alone, is trapped in the dark, at the mercy of monsters wearing the skin of men. But he doesn’t want to think about this, doesn’t want to poke at the holes in his mind, the shimmery images of a kind stranger that may or may not have been real. Jak would rather think Phoenix was a wisp; a phantom of kindness then admit he was fooled into believing someone in this place cared.

Forcing tired eyes closed, curling up tighter under the covers, Jak finally gives in to the exhaustion. 

**~~Phoenix~~**

Phoenix isn’t sure this a good idea, then again, he's not sure of anything right now. He should be used to uncertainty, heartbreak, disappointment, but he thought things would be different this time. He thought Ivan was different, that they had a future together, one that eclipsed this hellish war. It was foolish of him to put so much faith in one person. People always let him down, break his heart. Why would Ivan be any different? 

Burying the heartache, Phoenix raises his hand, closed fist hanging unsteadily in the air, inches from the Commander’s door. It isn’t wise to be here, and yet he is. The red door glistens in the hallway light, a twistedly fitting choice for Erol - a reminder of the blood he’s spilt, the innocence he’s stolen. Phoenix swallows thickly, nerves coiling beneath his skin, this is a dangerous game, a deadly gamble, but Phoenix knows how to weave his charisma, how to tell lies like casting spells. 

He’s never dealt with anyone as dangerous, _deranged_ as Erol, but he’s danced with devils, played with fire all his life. Determination burns within, steadying his hand. He knocks, two quick raps, Commander Erol responds almost instantly, a cold, brisk ‘enter’ coming from the other side. Phoenix opens the door, revealing a lavish office. The room oozes power and self-importance, impressive with its polished to perfection mahogany desk, towering bookcases and large floor to ceiling windows overlooking the bay – in the distance, Upper Haven glistens. Across the desk, Erol stands, attention given to the paperwork being shoved hastily into a leather satchel. 

His pale cheeks are tinged red beneath the grey tattoos, amber eyes darting about under a deep-set scowl. He looks nothing like the menacing figure Phoenix confronted in the dark of the infirmary, his mere presence awaking a fear so intense it left him a trembling mess. The muted afternoon light, the frizzled red hair and furrowed brows humanise him. His stomach twist, threatening to empty what little he ate onto the red carpet of the Commander’s office, it’s not right that Erol gets to appear harmless, _human_ – he is monstrous and vile, the dying light shouldn’t paint him any other way. 

Swallowing the revulsion, Phoenix steps fully into the room. “Is this an inconvenient time?” his tone is polite, but the words are bitter on his tongue. 

“It depends-” the Commander looks up, pinning Phoenix in place with an impatient stare, “-on what you’re here for.” 

“I just came by to drop this off.” He holds up Jak’s medical chart, guilt prickling hotly under his skin. This, _this_ feels like a betrayal, like he’s giving away an essential piece of Jak. Phoenix _needs_ a reason to be here, though, and he needs this display of loyalty to build a sense of trust. “Ivan usually takes care of this sort of thing, but he’s off sick today.” His tone remains even, a stark contrast to the unrest within. “All the other bloodwork and test results have been destroyed.” 

Erol sizes him up, those unnerving amber eyes searching his face, looking for a trace or whisper of a lie, a hint that he could be a traitor. Satisfied, lie bought, Erol extends a yellowed-gloved hand. Phoenix hesitates a moment, chest squeezed painfully by guilt. With a heavy heart, he reaches across the desk, placing the chart in Erol’s waiting hand. Jak will have justice one day, he will have freedom and Erol will topple from his gilded perch, rot in the ruins of the kingdom he built from blood and bone. 

“Appreciated,” Erol said coolly, tucking the folder into his satchel. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have somewhere else to be.” 

“Hot date?” he tempts, hands tucked behind his back to hide the tremor. He shouldn’t be enticing the devil, but he desperately reaching for Jak, seeking some form of confirmation that he is alive. There is no reason he shouldn’t be, but fear and despair have spun him into a mess. 

Erol’s gaze narrows, eyes flickering with something Phoenix can’t decipher. “No, I’m far too busy for that.” He slings the satchel across his torso. “I'm honestly too busy for this,” he continues, words inflated with self-importance, “but my mother has requested I join her for dinner.” 

There is disdain in Erol's voice, the indecipherable flicker becoming readable – Erol isn't fond of his mother, or the very least has mixed feelings about her. _This_ is something Phoenix can relate too, it's a dangling hook waiting to be grabbed. 

“Oh, that sounds lovely.” He chooses his words deliberately, playing oblivious. “I can't remember the last time I was invited home for dinner.” He can, it was a year ago, on a rainy Thursday afternoon. It was disastrous. “I don't get along with my parents, unfortunately.” He offered, a breadcrumb in a snare. 

“Does anyone?” Erol quirks a brow, taking the bait. 

“I’m sure there are parents out there who aren’t constantly disappointed in their children.” 

Erol’s thin lips twitch in amusement. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience?” 

“Ah yes, I am awfully familiar with not living up to my potential,” he replied, “or rather, what my parents consider my potential.” 

“Interesting,” he murmured, regarding Phoenix like he was a puzzle worth solving. “Your last names Waterford, correct?” 

“Correct.” 

“Any relation to Richard Waterford?” 

“I am his son,” he said, smiling ruefully, “to his dismay.” 

“And you didn’t want to join the family business?” 

A long time ago, before the rebellion, before the nights coming home drunk, smelling of cigarettes and strangers, he was expected to take over the company. “What can I say?” he plastered on a grin, shrugging dramatically. “I’m a disappointment.” 

“I’ve met your father a handful of times at council meetings,” Erol revealed, “he does seem like a tough man to impress.” 

“Tough is putting it mildly.” Callous, greedy, and egotistical are more fitting words for Richard Waterford. 

“I can relate to that,” Erol admitted. 

“Don’t get along with your father either?” 

“No, the man’s dead,” he replied bluntly, without a flicker of sorrow. “My mother is the one I must impress, and that woman can be diabolical.” 

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree then, he thinks, saying instead. “Can’t say my mothers the warmest either.” 

“To tell you the truth, I prefer my mother when she is unfeeling, it’s when she cares that she becomes dangerous.” He disclosed, stepping around the desk, ensnared by Phoenix’s trap. “Her love, when it’s given, is like fire. Smothering and burning, consuming all its path.” 

There seems to be a vague threat underlining Erol’s’ words, it sends a shiver down Phoenix’s spine, jarring him back to the reality of the situation. He’s standing in the heart of darkness, its wickedly dangerous creation moving in. “Why go home then?” He dares ask, voice paper-thin. 

“I have my reasons.” He straightened up, voice taking on a harsh edge. “Now, I really must be going.” He opens the door, gesturing for Phoenix to exit. 

“Of course.” He steps out into the sombre hallway, adding, with a friendly smile, “I hope you’re evening isn’t too torturous.” 

Erol chuckles thinly. “I’m sure I’ll survive.” With that, he closed the door to his office, taking a moment to lock it before giving Phoenix one last piercing stare. “I’ll see you around.” There is a vague threat glinting in his eyes, in the twist of his lips. It’s a warning, a promise of violence hidden behind politeness. 

Phoenix inhales deeply, rising to the challenge. Erol is leaving the island just as a blizzard is rolling in, there is no better time to pull off a reckless plan. Phoenix can’t do it alone though, he’ll have to swallow his pride, bury the anguish, and ask for help. 

***

Outside the wind howls, the sound a mournful cry, adding to the eerie feeling that befalls the prison at night. A chill settles deep within Phoenix’s bones as he paces the corridor, hands clenching and unclenching at his side. His gaze flickers to the scratch marks glinting like a warning on the metal door. Had Erol noticed them? Or was he in too much of a rush to get to Jak, to violet him before the daylight could reveal his twisted desires? Fingers curl into tight fists, nails biting crescent moons into palms. The anger is starting to get the best of Phoenix. He’s shaking, trembling down to the bone, sickened by his exchange with Erol.

In the cold light of the setting sun, the Commander was just another human, another soul with a story to tell. Bonding with Erol - if it could be called that - has left a bitter taste in his mouth, a nest of thorns in his stomach. Shame jostle with the revulsion, crawling under his skin like a parasite. He’s itching to pour a drink, drown himself in oblivion and wash away the acid taste left on his tongue. He’s wild and restless, strings coiled tight. He wants to throw a punch. Break something, set fire to his fucking awful place. God’s how does Erol do this? How does he go about his life, with such dignity and confidence, knowing what he’s done? 

How does _he_ live with himself? 

The hydraulic hiss scatters Phoenix’s tumbling thoughts. He comes to a halt, fists clenched at his side, head held high in determination. The door opens, revealing Ivan, dishevelled, and wrecked, reeking of whiskey and tobacco. He looks nothing like the composed and poised; guard Phoenix met all those weeks ago. Nothing like the man he fell for. This is the look of someone who’s fallen from grace, landing in a gritty bar. 

Phoenix almost feels sorry for Ivan, _almost_ wants to forgive him, can feel his heart softening, _aching_ , but the sting of betrayal is stronger. Ivan could have found a way to stop Erol from taking, _violating_ Jak. Phoenix would have told a thousand lies to keep him safe, but his tongue is skilled at shaping tales. Perhaps Ivan is still bound by loyalty, and that's why he looked the other way. He was willing to form a rescue plan while Phoenix was on his knees for him, was ready to act the part of the hero to get Phoenix into bed. 

He thought Jak was dangerous, and maybe he was or would be but that didn’t change _anything_. He is a sixteen-year-old boy in need of protecting and Ivan left him to Erol’s mercy, knowing full well what the man’s intentions were. That Phoenix cannot forgive. He didn’t summon Ivan here to absolve him of his sins, to give forgiveness. He needs his help. 

“Phoenix, what’s wrong?” Ivan demanded, winded, hazel eyes a little frenzied. 

“I want you to take me to see Jak.” He’d sent a message of distress, saying he urgently needed Ivan. 

“Phoenix!” his name rips from Ivan's lips, bouncing off the cinder block walls. "For fuck’s sake, we've been through this.” Infuriated, Ivan throws his arms in the air, the space between them crackling. “Visiting Jak will arouse suspicion.” He inhales deeply, anger wavering as he continues. “I know you’re worried about him, that you want to make sure he’s okay, but this isn’t the way.” He’s almost pleading, voice breaking under the strain. 

"You owe me this, Ivan,” he declared, wielding the words like a dagger, aiming right at Ivan’s heart. “You _owe_ Jak this.” 

His face darkens, eyes flicking with something vicious. “You don’t know what it’s like to have people you care about-” he flings the dagger back, the blade now made of ice “-do you?” 

Ivan’s words hit Phoenix like a match striking a trail of gasoline, everything that was and could have been going up in smoke. “I cared for you.” His voice is a hollow, twisted thing, the unspoken love confession burning a hole in his chest, the only tangible thing left amongst the ruins. 

“Not as much as you cared for the kid,” he fired back, voice raw, hurt. “Your need to play the hero was always going to be the end of us.” 

"I'm not trying to be a hero.” He's been down that road before. He thought he could save the city, be a hero like Mar. Rescuing Jak wasn't a streak of rebellion, wasn't a silent fuck you to his parents or the Baron Praxis. It was about doing the right thing. It was about saving a life. “I am just trying to be a good man.” He places a hand to his chest, right above his frantically beating heart. “A man who doesn't look the other way when an underage boy is tortured and raped.” 

Ivan winces, paling in shame. “I hate myself for walking away.” He folds his arms, fingers curling tightly around his biceps. "I fucked up, I should have done something or said something.” Dark lashes flutter, blinking away the sheen of tears. “Instead, I looked the other way, like I always do.” He deflates, _breaks._ “I'm sorry Phoenix,” he says, words unlined with a thousand unspoken things. “I know you want to see Jak, but if Erol catches us-” 

“-Erol’s not here.” He interrupts, pushing down the storm of emotions raging through him. “He’s out for the evening, and the prison is on a skeleton crew." 

“It’s still too damn risky,” he insists, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re playing with fire, Phoenix.” 

“Ivan, please.” He’s getting desperate. Is shaking so violently it feels like he’ll shatter into a million pieces. “Please.”

“Why are you so desperate to see him?” 

“To give him hope.” Phoenix feels something within himself ache and twist, the release of emotions giving clarity to his desperation to see Jak. They gave him hope, only to let it come down in flames. “We gave him hope.” They _promised_ Jak they’d rescue him, only to let that promise go up in flames. “We gave him a reason to keep fighting.”

“And you’re worried that’s all gone?” Ivan’s resolve is breaking. “He probably thinks we betrayed him.” He drops his gaze to the floor, face clouding with shame. “He’d be right too.” 

“We can’t know for certain.” Phoenix swallows thickly, heart shattering at the thought of Jak believing he’d been betrayed. “Though it’s a reasonable assumption.” 

“Shit,” Ivan cursed, voice trembling with regret, with raw panic. He strides to the window, gaze fixed on the dark and wild night. For a moment he seems lost to the storm, to the madness, then something bends, something gives. “This is a stupid idea, Phoenix.” 

“So is planning a prison break and seeking help from the Underground,” he replied ruefully, “yet we’re still here.” 

"Yeah, well,” he spins around, "our luck is going to run out eventually.” 

“Not tonight.” 

“You can’t be sure of that.” 

“The odds are in our favour.” He smiles thinly, hoping to the Precursors that he’s right. 

“You better hope so,” he muttered, resistance crumbling. “Alright…” he shakes his head like he can't believe the words he's saying. "Let’s do this.” 

“I know you’re risking a lot, Ivan.” He steps closer, pulled towards Ivan, drawn to him by a magnetic force that crackles and ripples. “For Jak, for me, so thank you.” The anger wanes for the first time in days, allowing Phoenix to finally meet Ivan’s eyes. “I won’t forget this.” 

“It’s like you said-” Ivan holds Phoenix's gaze, hazel eyes swirling with hope and anguish, with tears that glitter like diamond shards, “-Jak needs hope.” 

**~~Jak~~**

The cold is relentless tonight, it seeps down into Jak’s bones, leaving him shivering, sifting through a tired mind, in search of memories of warmth. He remembers roaring fires and the summer sun beating down on his skin, can almost smell the kindling, the salty air of a balmy day. Within his mind, there are arms to hold him, hands offering blankets knitted with love. There is warmth and comfort in the distance, shimmering like a lost treasure, like _hope_.

Jak gives chase, desperate to slip through the hands of time and return home – he reaches for the warmth, drawn to it like a moth to a flame, but it's always out of reach. The frigid air creeps under the covers, through the worn fabric of his prison clothes, seeping down to his bones. The biting chill returns, memories of warmth, fire, sun, and sand drifting away, ripped from cold hands.

Tired, aching limps curl impossibly tighter. Outside the storm rages on. He might freeze to death tonight unless the guards bring him another blanket, or the vents kick in, flooding the cell with artificial warmth. Has he misbehaved lately? Has he given enough to Erol, to Praxis to deserves warmth? The events of the last few days are jumbled and torn, blurred around the edges. Trying to make sense of the pieces in his mind is pointless. He’ll be given warmth, or he won’t.

He’ll survive the night, or he won’t.

The hydraulic hiss of the cell door opening scatters the morbid train of thoughts. Tensing under the covers, Jak braces for whatever pain is to come. Breath held, heart-pounding, he listens to the approaching footsteps. They are not the Commander's confidante, purposeful strides nor the ungraceful thud of the Krimzon Guards heavy boots. These steps make little noise, pause every so often like the person they belong to is uncertain of the path they are taking.

“Jak?”

His name floats down, seeping under the covers, resting on his frozen skin. Erol and the guards do not know his name, and if they did, then it would be spat, said with malice. Withered memories gather in Jak's mind, flickering as if caught on a picture reel. The picture real bursts to life, only this time it’s not Sandover that appears, no smiling snapshot of his friend's faces or sundrenched days. There is white, lots of it and bright lights, some that glisten and wink like stars. Standing in the white is a man Jak swore he dreamt up, with kind eyes and an honest smile.

Phoenix…

Jak springs up, rage quivering under his skin, the violent heat pulsating through him in waves, scattering the chill. Phoenix was real, not just a fevered minds hallucination. Phoenix _is_ real, and he betrayed him. The covers scrunch between trembling fingers, teeth-gritting against the urge to lash out, to strike Phoenix down. He lied. He left.

“Jak, hey, easy.” He backs up a step, a figure moving through muted darkness. “It’s okay.”

No, no, it’s not. None of this okay. Phoenix lied. _He left_.

He sinks to the floor. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The air crackles charged as the storm unfolding outside.

“I’m so sorry, Jak,” he says, voice breaking in the dark.

Pressure builds in Jak’s throat, a captive voice begging to be freed, to scream, to roar. _You lied. You left._

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you.”

Jak shudders and shakes, anger wavering, unravelling.

“I’m sorry for everything.”

Rage burns out as quickly as it sparked, leaving clarity to rush back in as fiercely as the tides. Phoenix left him, not to Erol’s mercy, but to seek help. The compassion, the promise and acts of kindness were not lies or grand delusions. Phoenix, who read him stories of a great warrior named Mar, who gave him chicken soup and an oversized sweater to sleep in, is real. Is here. Jak reaches out, forgetting, for a fleeting moment, all the violent touches that had come before, and pulls Phoenix into a tight embrace.

Arms - that are strong enough to hold him down - wrap around him, giving comfort over pain. Jak sinks into the embrace, shivering as anguish leaches the warmth from frost-bitten bones. Tears burn behind closed eyes, threatening to spill, to reveal weakness. Jak grits his teeth, holding back the flood, but Phoenix senses the distress, the way only people with kind hearts can. He leans back, cradling Jak’s face between his hands - the touch gentle when it could be bruising.

His breath hitches, chest caught by an upswell of emotion and suddenly he is sinking, _drowning_ in an enormous, _unnameable_ hurt. He shatters, he cries, but the pieces do not tumble to the gritty concrete floor, and the tears are not ridiculed. Phoenix holds him, encircling him in warmth and safety, which only makes Jak cry harder. He trembles, coming undone thread by painful thread. A small part of Jak remains fearful, _judgemental_ , scolding him for showing weakness, for crying like a child.

It’s that inner child, the one he’s outgrown and the one he’ll never be again, that weeps, that seeks comfort and solace. He’s too tired and hurt to be brave, to be the hero. He’s been in the dark, at the mercy of wicked men, for far too long. He wants to be safe. To be protected for all the times he wasn’t. Phoenix can’t keep him safe indefinitely, for this fleeting, fragile moment though he can offer the illusion of it. That’s the root of all this anguish, the knowledge Phoenix will have to leave again. That he’ll be alone again, in the empty dark.

The tears come harder, rain after weeks of drought, but they do not bring new crops or saplings, there is no rainbow and clear skies at the end of this downpour. There is just debris, soaked fields and sludge to sink into. Phoenix will leave. He’ll leave, he’ll leave, _he’ll_ _leave_. Yet he doesn’t. He stays. He stays until the tears are just streaks drying on Jak’s face until the winds howling outside thin to mournful moans. He wraps Jak in his coat – not the crisp white lab coat, but something made of soft wool – and sits beside him.

“I _will_ get you out of here, Jak,” Phoenix whispers, arms tightening around him in an unspoken vow. “The Underground will find us a hideout soon, and once they do, I’ll come for you.”

Jak wants to believe him, but hope is a terrible and feeble thing to maintain in a place like this, even with words full of promise and unwavering conviction.

“I’ll come for you,” he repeats like he’s heard every fear rattling through Jak’s head, felt the anguish in his bones. “I just need you to hold on a little longer, okay?” He leans back, holding Jak at arm’s length. “You’ll be out of here before you know it, I promise.”

Daxter had said the same thing, yet he had not come. Phoenix promised safety, and yet Erol came for him in the night. But Phoenix had not been there that night, the betrayal came from Ivan, and Ivan is not here, has not been mentioned. Daxter must be out there searching for him, doing everything in his power to reach him, but his size is against him, and Keira and Samos have no idea where he was. The only chance Jak has of freedom, apart from giving up, _giving in_ , is with Phoenix.

He can trust Phoenix. Believe _in_ him. He wasn’t a trick of the mind, nor a wisp or phantom, but flesh and blood, and he’s right here, promising freedom. _Giving hope_. Fear and doubt falter as an ember flickers and sparks within, he can do this, strength and determination are in his blood.

Freedom will come, just not tonight. 

Tonight, he must gather his inner strength, fan embers into flames, and _fight_.


	10. Glory and Gore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harker Manor comes into sight, a sprawling, dark stone mansion backdropped by lush woods – a few windows, lit golden by the light within, glow like eyes in the dark. Harker Manor is as beautiful as it is haunting, the perfect imitation of the woman who lives within. Erol glides through the open, ornamental gates, pulling up near the marble tiered Versailles fountain. He dismounts the zoomer, smoothing down his ruffled hair as he walks the short distance to the front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again to all the lovely people who take the time to comment/leave kudos or just read this fic :) I appreciate you, and I love getting your feedback and support. 
> 
> This chapter is a deep dive into Erol's life! The rotten apple doesn't fall from the tree. 
> 
> I'm going to put a warning for toxic parenting, abusive behaviours and Erol's general creepiness. Also, this should go without saying; any of Erol's backstory does not excuse him of his crimes or actions. I'm just fleshing out his character a bit more.

**Erol**

Erol’s going to be late, the traffic in Upper Haven is congested, moving sluggishly due to the poor visibility caused by the approaching snowstorm. Moira Harker hates tardiness, she will be sitting in the dining room, sipping her wine – a vintage red – glancing discreetly at the grandfather clock as the minute’s tick by. The maids will be hovering, at the ready with more wine, with trays of cooling hors d’oeuvres. Moira’s plucked auburn brows will be knitted together, thin lips – coated as red as the wine, as red as blood – will be pressed into a hard line. Disappointed but not surprised, she’ll wait impatiently for Erol to arrive.

The image of his mother dissolves as the traffic rolls forward, the turn off to Krimson Avenue nearing. Erol is late of his own fault, he got side-tracked at the prison, well that’s what he’ll say, through a gritted smile and thrusting out a bouquet of flowers. It’s a half-truth, he was at the prison, and he did lose track of time, but it wasn’t really his fault. The physician had waylaid him, his boldness, his questions piquing Erol’s interest.

Phoenix Waterford was a rather handsome man, who was clearly used to getting his way by merely flashing a winsome smile. All the noblemen’s son thought they could get want they wanted with the right smile, the right number of orbs on a cheque. Name and money carried favour in Haven City, it was easy to buy silence, to buy friends and pleasures. With his flair of prideful elegance and air of confidence, Phoenix was the kind of man who talked their way into places.

Erol knew a master manipulator when he saw one, hell he was surrounded by them, learnt from them, hide amongst them. However, the question remains, what had Phoenix been seeking? He could have waited for a guard to collect the chart or for Ivan to return, instead, he travelled deep into the fortress to reach him. There are a dozen things Phoenix could have been after, a better position in the prison, a more admirable job at Precursor Health and Healing Hospital. But he didn’t ask for anything, didn’t charm or cheat his way to a favour.

From the outside, the visit appears harmless, a dutiful physician, a loyal employee, but Erol hasn’t forgotten that he found the boy uncuffed in the infirmary, that he wasn’t wearing his prison-issued clothes. The traffic disbands, hover cars gliding smoothly forward as the grey afternoon light bleeds into the night. Erol pushes aside his suspicions, tucking them away to analyse later when the stress of the evening has passed. The zoomer purrs in relief, engine roaring as he guns it down the quiet street, trying to make up for lost time while releasing some tension.

From inside the manor, sitting beneath a crystal chandelier and surrounded by polished silverware, his mother will hear the rev of his engine, will tighten her arthritic fingers in anger around the stem of her wine glass. He can see the image vividly, it’s a memory from a time when it was his older brother tearing down the street, racing the clock home. Moira complained endlessly about Erol’s desire to race and speed around on a zoomer when there were safer means of travel.

Erol gives into most of his mother’s demands, tries hard to be the dutiful son, to outshine the ghost of his brother, but this is one thing he will not relinquish. He is the most talented racer in Haven, has a shelf teeming with gleaming trophies to prove it. Those trophies, engraved with his name, are the few things that are all his. Well, the boy is his, but that can’t be shown off and prided, not yet at least. Not until every spark is burnt out.

Surely, he’ll break soon, one more beating, one more dark eco treatment, one more night left bleeding in the dark.

Harker Manor comes into sight, a sprawling, dark stone mansion backdropped by lush woods – a few windows, lit golden by the light within, glow like eyes in the dark. Harker Manor is as beautiful as it is haunting, the perfect imitation of the woman who lives within. Erol glides through the open, ornamental gates, pulling up near the marble tiered Versailles fountain. He dismounts the zoomer, smoothing down his ruffled hair as he walks the short distance to the front door.

It opens for him, warmth spilling out into the frigid night air. A maid greets him, taking his coat and satchel while keeping her head bowed and eyes to the ground, though he feels her chance a few glances, cheeks flushing pink when he catches her. She smiles coyly like she thinks she’s special, is unique enough to capture the attention of someone higher up than her. Erol is used to girls throwing themselves at him, it’s to be expected given his title and fame. He’s learnt to ignore the desperate girls in skin-tight clothing that clamber for his attention.

Was that what Phoenix was seeking? Money, bragging rights? If Phoenix were out of favour with his family, he would be penniless, explaining why he took such a job. There weren’t many doctors lining up to work at the prison, it wasn’t a pleasant place to work, and anyone with a weak stomach wouldn’t last. Many had tried to slip away with the Baron’s secrets, had sought renegade journalist in hopes of spilling said secrets. In the end, they were caught, strung up in the Red Square.

Those were lesser men, though. Phoenix radiated with confidence, was the son of Richard Waterford, a nobleman whose family had worked alongside Baron’s Praxis for years. Phoenix’s past records were spotless, his grades were remarkable and his reputation no different to any other nobleman’s son. Perhaps Erol is acting paranoid, is turning a possible ally into an enemy. Coming home always does this to him. He’s not even seen his mother, and yet she is unravelling him.

He knows how to distinguish friend from foe, a spy from an admirer, it’s evident in their fake interest, in their eagerness to please. They are willing to do anything for him, and he rather enjoys pushing them to their limits, loves seeing their strong facades crumble as they sink into self-hatred. Clever girls and charming men are dangerous, are wasps dressed as butterflies. Most of the men and women he’s encountered, _broken_ , are novice journalists trying to get a peek behind the crimson curtains – a few were Underground members, hellbent on destroying the empire Praxis nearly lost his life to build.

They are harder to break, to see, but Erol has yet to be fooled by their false charms and sweet smiles. This girl, who is leading him to the dining room, quiet as a mouse, could be one of them, could be playing the coy flirt in hopes of tricking him into spilling secrets. Phoenix could be a spy from the Underground, a leech out for money. Or perhaps she is just a maid, young and starstruck, and Phoenix is just a devoted worker, seeking approval since his family doesn’t give it to him, and Erol has nothing to fear.

Well, almost nothing.

As he steps into the gilded dining room, he is met by an icy stare, the kind that seeps right down to the bones, stirring awake the ghost of a boy who used to cower in her presence. His fingers curl inward, nails biting into the soft flesh of palms, leaving crescent moons. Erol does not tremble or waver, he stands straight, holding his mother’s cold stare.

“You’re late.” She pointed a red-tipped nail in the grandfather clocks direction. “You know I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“I apologise, mother, I lost track of time.” He walks towards the table, pulling out a seat before one of the fine-boned maids can do it. “I bought you these.” He holds out the bouquet of white Juliet Rose’s, expression appropriately apologetic.

“What kept you this time?” she asked, accepting the bouquet with a tight smile. “One of those floozies at the racetrack?”

“I’m hurt mother,” he placed a hand over his heart, voice thinning in faux disappointment, “you honestly think I’d waste my time with a girl beneath my statues?”

“All young men have urges, Erol.”

Oh, they do, and he does, but he doesn’t need to pick up someone from the tracks or a seedy bar to fulfil those needs. Not now he’s given in to his desire for the blue-eyed boy. He can have his needs met whenever he desires, risk-free. Well almost, after finding the boy uncuffed in the infirmary he started to question the loyalty of the on-duty guard – and Phoenix’s visit warranted closer inspection - but Ivan let him walk right in, let him take what is his. Still, to air on the side of caution, he returned the boy to his cell for safekeeping.

“I assure you, mother,” he replied, lie rolling off his tongue with practised ease, “my urges are under control.”

Moira held his gaze, eyes wrinkled around the edges, iris gold and cold. She raises the crystal glass to her pursed lips, taking a measured sip as her eyes search his face for a flicker, a tell, but his mask is impenetrable. “Well then,” she said, at last, thin lips curling into an almost smile, “should we eat?”

***

The storm arrives earlier than predicted, howling winds picking up halfway through dinner, forcing Erol outside to move his zoomer into the safety of the garage. This displeased Moira, she’d ordered him to let someone else do it, but the maids don’t know how to drive, and he wasn’t going to leave his priced zoomer to the perish in the storm. The evening passed in tense silence, the clink of silverware and roaring wind a fitting soundtrack for the fair.

As dessert and coffee arrived – delivered by the coy maid, who tried to snatch Erol’s attention – Moira thawed, the frost receding from her gaze, appearing instead on the windows overlooking the snow-covered garden. It’s not going to be possible to travel in this storm, and though the very thought of staying the night makes Erol’s skin crawl, he has no other choice. His mother insists, seemingly pleased, smug almost, with the turn of events. Moira loves to sink her claws in, he can feel the sharp edge of them against his skin, fingers lacing a noose around his neck.

To be loved by Moira is to be smothered, is to be coated in gasoline and set ablaze.

Erol is used to the flames, to the toxic smoke filling the air, choking him. She only loves so fiercely because she knows what loss feels like. First, his father, a man of no importance, died not long after Erol turned eight, leaving them penniless. A little over a decade later, death returned, taking her first-born son. Lucian Harker went out of this world as wildly as came into it, now he is ash in a brass urn that takes centre place on the fireplace mantel, and his father is a fading memory and a thousand broken promises.

Erol doesn’t like to think of the years following his father’s death, they were unpleasant, _undignified_. They’re struggles ended when Moira married Victor Harker, a noteworthy councilman. Life was glittery and golden after that, full of promise and power. Erol wore his new statues like a crown, thriving on the freedom permitted by the persuasion of money. Moira sent him to a private school, filled his shelves with books and wardrobes with expensive clothes. She loved him, and he loved her, despite her claws and thorns.

She wants the best for him, at least, that’s what she tells him during dessert, right before revealing her plan for his future. He is to marry Ashelin Praxis. There is honour in this. She is Baron Praxis’s daughter, the heir to the city, and Erol admires and respects Baron Praxis immensely – however, the idea of marrying Ashelin is preposterous. He would gladly sacrifice his body to the Dark Warrior Program, lay down his life for the Baron, for the city, but marry the selfish, spoiled, harlot? No. Not a chance.

“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic Erol,” Moira says tersely, “I know Ashelin is headstrong and self-centred, most girls are these days, but Henry assured me he’ll have her straightened out and fit for wifely duties.” She paused, taking a sip of coffee. “She just has to get that rebellious streak out of her system-” she levels Erol with a firm stare “-just as you do.” She smirks, lips bleeding red into her skin. “Then you can both settle down and give me some grandchildren.”

Erol grimaced, stomach revolting at the mere thought of fatherhood. “I don’t want children,” Erol said through clenched teeth, challenging his mother, fighting against this insane idea with every molecule and fibre in his being. “Besides, even if Ashelin agreed to marry me, for her father’s sake, I highly doubt she’d be willing to get into bed with me.” Ashelin would rather be flayed alive then sleep with him, and he’d rather face a horde of Metal Heads.

“Well, you’re a strong man, Erol, I’m sure you can persuade her.” She smiles predatorily, relishing in the idea of having ties to the throne, an invite into the crystal and ruby bejewelled world of the monarchs. “As for the children, you’ll have nannies to take care of them,” Moira replied, waving the matter away like it was a minor inconvenience. “Your work won’t be interrupted, darling.”

“I’m not going to take advantage of the Baron’s daughter, I have too much respect for him to harm her.” Ashelin is feisty, is a dirty fighter, even if he subdued her, she’d seek revenge. She was petty like that, uncaring about the role she is meant to play. Her job as Baron Praxis’s only heir is to continue the line, and yet she is out playing soldier, trying to make her way in a man’s world. Praxis gives in to her, lets her run wild all over Haven, wearing the crimson uniform with false pride. “And I highly doubt Ashelin is going to agree to any of this. The Baron has allowed her freedom for too long. He won’t be able to clip her wings now.”

“Oh darling, don’t trouble yourself with such worries.” She sets the cup down, gesturing for the eavesdropping maid to refill it. “This has been in the works for quite some time, and Henrick won’t let his reckless daughter jeopardise their entire future.” She drops a sugar cube into the dark liquid, adding a splash of cream before lifting the black china cup to her crimson mouth. “Everything will fall into place.”

“So that’s it?” anger flares through him, searing rage as wild as the blizzard outside. “I don’t get a say in the matter?”

“Why are you resisting this?” she demanded, ice seeping into her tone, turning the sweetness bitter. “You should be thrilled Henrick chose you, of all people, for his daughter to marry. You’ll have everything at your fingertips, power, wealth, eco, all of it yours. _Ours._ ” Her eyes glisten, full of burning stars and yearning. “Don’t be selfish, Erol,” the words are spoken softly, yet they are thunderous. “Do this for the man you admire so greatly.”

She leans forward, reaching out a pale, bony hand to rest on his, fingers cold and crocked. “Do this for me, please? And do this for yourself.” Blood red lips press into a cunning smile. “You are not going to be the one who slays the Metal Head leader,” her claws sink in, words cutting to the bone, “and eventually someone will beat you on the tracks, taking all that fame and glory you cling too with them, so you might as well take what is being given to you. It’s the only way you’ll ever be truly remarkable.”

The anger swells and rages like the howling wind that bends trees to its will and knocks out the eco grid, plunging them into darkness. There is a crash, a spark of orange flame in the distance, followed by a startled cry. His mother does not flinch, her hand remains steady, cold, like marble, over his. She is an unmovable force, a woman of savage beauty and fierceness. Moira Harker is remarkable, is exceptional. Erol hates relinquishing control, loathes the very thought of marrying Ashelin, but his mother has spoken, the deal struck.

In the dark, as the air thins and grows frigid, Erol grips his mother’s hand, accepting his fate.

**~~~~~~~~~~**

Morning can’t come soon enough. Erol chased sleep through the night, tossing restlessly under silken covers, grappling with the future his mother has assigned him. As dawn neared and the raging winds calmed, Erol finally succumbed to sleep. There was no use resisting, no point seething and searching for an escape. Once Moira Harker made a choice, put thought to action, it became unbreakable. She’d cast the spell, swayed the universe in her favour, now he would one day rule Haven.

It was a grand title, a position of power worth taking. It just felt unfitting. Erol had no issue with taking control of power, no problem with titles – he wore the Commander’s badge with pride, thrived on being called Haven’s champion – but those were things he strived for. He’d desired to serve Baron Praxis from an early age, dreamt for years of ridding the City of Metal Heads and the traitorous scum that hide in the city’s underbelly. He prided himself on being strong enough, fast enough, smart enough to make into the Krimzon Guard Academy.

He not only excelled in the academy but became one of the youngest Commanders in Haven history. He is the right-hand man to the Baron, the city’s air racing grand champion, yet it’s not enough. As Erol laid, twisted in the mess of silken sheets, morning air cooling his skin, he came to a realisation. Moira thinks he is unremarkable, that the only significant thing he can achieve in his life is to be the husband of Ashelin Praxis.

She’s not wrong to think this – fame can fade, titles can be downgraded and snatched away, trophies and medals tarnish. These are temporary things, and Erol does not wish to be temporary, to be forgotten. Another name lost to time. He wants to be remembered for centuries, to be legendary, _extraordinary_. Moira’s plan for him to wed Ashelin is built from her own desire for glory, power, and control.

Erol shakes his head, trying to dislodge the derailed train of thoughts the sleepless night has left him chasing. It’s time to go, pull free of his mother’s iron grip and shake off the cobwebs that settled over him while he slept. He speeds through the white-washed morning, the blistering cold seeping deep into his bones, awakening him better than any amount of caffeine ever could. Moira’s claws release from Erol’s skin, the fresh wounds burning from the poison left in her wake.

Erol revs the engine, fingers tightening on the throttle, itching to leave their mark on the world. Ever since Erol can remember, he’s wanted to feel the glory and gore of battle, to be the one to end this five-hundred-year war. Of course, he isn’t foolish enough to believe he can take on the Metal Head leader alone, but if the dark eco can transform the boy into a weapon, Erol will have a chance. The boy hasn’t been easy to tame, _to break_ , despite what Erol’s put him through. What he discovered last night, during the long restless hours awake, will turn the tide in his favour.

There in the file, right at his fingertips, the entire time was the boy’s name. Jak. It rolled off his tongue with flair, resounding in the night with promise. In the early hours of dawn, a wickedly delightful yet straightforward plan began to form. He's been having fun with the boy, with _Jak_ , enjoying the struggles, the thrill of power that comes with getting him to be still long enough to use. This should not be mistaken for obedience or submission; it’s momentary defeat, not surrender.

The pain he’s inflicted will never leave the boy, but it hasn’t been enough to break him. The mind is a powerful thing, and _Jak_ is resilient, can build walls to seal the memories of sexual violence behind. Can hide from them, run from them, though they will eventually catch up. Erol doesn’t have time for that. He needs to shatter Jak’s strength of will, break him in every way possible. Only then can he attach strings. Make him dance.


	11. A Foolish, Fragile Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jak waits. He waits for hours, for days, for weeks, but every time the door opens, it’s not Phoenix who enters. It’s the faceless guards, cruel and taunting, dragging him off to the cold metal rooms, to that God-forsaken chair. It’s Erol, in the middle of the night, again and again, and again. Each passing day dulls the fire, flames turning to embers to ash. He’s losing hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading/commenting :) 
> 
> Warnings: shock therapy, non-consensual kissing, forced oral sex, whipping, blood and gore, body horror, humiliation, emotional manipulation

**Jak**

Jak waits. He waits for hours, for days, for weeks, but every time the door opens, it’s not Phoenix who enters. It’s the faceless guards, cruel and taunting, dragging him off to the cold metal rooms, to that God-forsaken chair. It’s Erol, in the middle of the night, _again and again, and again_. Each passing day dulls the fire, flames turning to embers to ash. He’s losing hope. Losing time. Reality bends and bleeds, days and nights blurring together. Memories jumble and mangle, reality playing out of order, twisted and fragmented.

There is darkness and joy, light and pain, home, and hell.

Jak’s in the chair, screaming himself hoarse. He’s under Erol, suffocating on sweat-stained sheets. He’s fighting another prisoner, mouth tasting of blood. He’s bound to a table, needles in his flesh, filling him with dark eco, with _hatred_. Then everything goes dark, for hours, for centuries, until he wakes to a blinding light, to a room of glinting silver and sickly green. A towering figure, silhouetted by a blinding light, appears at his side, reaching out a large hand to grab a fistful of hair, jerking his head up.

Baron Praxis looms over him, a man of metal and malice. He looks down at Jak like he is a _thing_ , not a living being who’s suffering, who has friends and a home that he longs to return too. The Baron doesn’t see the life he’s torn apart, the future he’s stolen. He sees an experiment, a body made of flesh and bone that is his to take, to change and taint with dark eco. Jak is a potential weapon, nothing more, nothing less.

“I’m going to make you speak, boy.” The Baron leans in, hot breath ghosting over bruised skin. “One way or another.”

Rage quivers under Jak’s skin, quiet and violent, gathering and growing into a living thing that makes a home within his chest, polluting his lungs with burning tar. ‘I’m going to kill you,’ the dark, pulsating rage hisses. ‘One way or another.’

“Let’s begin.” The Baron smirks, releasing Jak from his iron grip.

The dark thing growls, baring its teeth in a furious snarl. Fingers twitch against the table, aching in a savage need for violence, for retribution. He’s teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something powerful when the feeling is silenced by something cold and bitter being forced into his mouth. There is no time to spit it out, to fight, _resist_. Without warning, there is a surge of electricity coursing through his body, white-hot and agonising, every muscle spasming and burning. Black dots swirl across his vision, gathering and shimmering until they explode.

Then there is nothing but empty darkness.

***

Jak wakes to the sensation of someone caressing his cheek. He tries to pull away from the prickle of cold flesh, but he’s strapped down, hurting, _helpless_. Fingers close around his jaw, gripping it roughly, causing him to still, to pay attention. Jak’s star-speckled vision swims into focus, edges blurred and burnt – Erol looms over him, grin sharp as a knife.

“Oh, Jak-” Erol purrs, digging the blunt nails into the soft flesh of Jak’s cheeks, “-what are we going to do about you?”

Jak freezes, stomach-lurching in horror – Erol knows his name, is tainting it with his poisonous tongue.

“Oh, are you wondering how I know your name?” he asked, voice dripping with toxic honey. “The good doctor told me.” His thin lips curl into a smile, cruel and mocking. “Did you think he cared about you? That you’d made a friend? Sorry to disappoint.” Erol chuckled, leaning in closer, closer, _closer_ , until his hot breath, his sharp teeth, can be felt against the delicate skin of his ear. “I don’t know why you held so tight to this; it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just something for me to call you, other than mine.” Teeth sink into flesh, not enough to draw blood, but enough to leave a mark, make a claim. “And you are mine, Jak.”

Anger sparks beneath the shock, _denial_ burning through him. Phoenix wouldn’t betray him. He’s not like Erol. He cares, has a kind heart and gentle soul. Erol is lying. Phoenix came for him, promised him over and over that he’d free him. Jak trusted him, gave him the last precious thing he had left to give, and he gave it to Erol. To use, to _abuse_. Betrayal hacks at his foolish heart, leaving it splintered and sharp. Erol stares down at him, gaze glinting with warped delight.

The anger swells, red and hot and alive under his skin, pulsating with the dark eco, with the remnants of the electric current. He wants to scream, to lash out, to break Erol’s bones and tear him apart. He wants to paint the walls red, splatter the floors with his innards. Jak thrashes, struggling against the cuffs but the metal doesn’t bend or break. Erol watches, amusement flickering in golden eyes. He’s enjoying this.

He’s _enjoying_ every second of it.

The rage crescendos, without regard or care, Jak tilts his head up and spits. It’s a pathetic attempt – his mouth is dry as the soil during a drought, tongue thick and heavy. He tries, though. He forces all the anger and hurt into his mouth, spitting into Erol’s face. Erol doesn’t even flinch at the contact, but his eyes narrow a fraction, darken.

“That’s a bit beneath you, Jak.” He wipes the spit away with the back of his yellow-gloved hand. “And to think, I saved you from the Baron’s attempt to shock you into speaking.” He frowns, a mockery of hurt. “You owe me a better thank you than this.” He grips Jak’s chin, forcing his head back against the metal table. “Though, I’m not opposed to you repaying the favour with your mouth.” He smooths a thumb over Jak’s lips, the threat, the _promise_ , making his stomach churn. “Perhaps later, hm? When you’re in a better mood.” Erol squeezed Jak’s jaw tightly, nails biting into the soft flesh of his cheeks.

Jak shudders, anger burning out, drowned roaring panic.

“We’ve got a lot of work to do, Jak,” he continues, “and I’m on a deadline… no, _we’re_ on a deadline.” The Commander flashes his teeth, smirk sharp as a knife. “You best sharpen your vocal cords, boy, otherwise by weeks end, you’ll be back in this room, and the Baron will shock or slice you until he figures out why you can’t’ speak. Which I’m sure you don’t want.” Erol’s tone softens with false empathy. “Enough of these treatments and your brain will liquefy. So, pull yourself together, _Jak_.” The sharp edge returns, winking in his eyes with the promise of violence. “And for the love of the Precursors, put your mouth to better use and speak.” He seals the words with a venomous kiss. “Well,” he murmurs, drawing Jak’s bottom lip between his teeth, biting down until the delicate skin tears, “one better use anyway.” He leaves with a wink, echoing footsteps following Jak into the dark.

**~~~~~~~~~~**

_The sun is rising high in the sky, its warmth beating down on the golden sand below. The ocean splashes invitingly against the shore, calling for Mar, asking him to come play in the cool shallows. Mar stays on the grass, plucking blades free and twisting them into knots. The Shadow slumbers in the shade of a palm tree, small green body hovering in mid-air. Inside Mar’s chest, his heart twinges, loneliness wrapping around him like an ice blanket._

_He misses home, misses his crocadog and the crowded, smelly bunker. He misses Kor, though he’s not meant to. Kor was a bad man, the Shadow said so, but how can that be true when all he ever offered was safety. He wasn’t the warmest of people, not fun like the golden-haired boy and his orange friend, not doting like the pretty blue-haired girl. Mar misses the world he knew, wants to go back, but the Shadow says they can’t._

_Mar yanks out a fistful of grass, throwing it into the wind with a frustrated grunt. The pain swells inside his chest, feeling big and heavy, endless like the ocean. Getting to his feet, Mar stomps away, disregarding the Shadow’s order not to wander off. He’s bored and angry, tired of being bossed around by grumpy old men. Everyone was always telling him what to do, moving him from place to place without stopping to ask what he wanted._

_Well, he wants to go home, not to the concrete city; that wasn’t Mar’s true home. The terrible thing is, Mar doesn’t remember where home is; he only has a sense that it isn’t here, and it wasn’t in Haven. It’s somewhere far, far away surrounded by sea and wildlands, under a blue sky that cracks open, releasing heavy rain that lasts for days. The memories of this place are faint, are fading a little more each day and Mar fears he’ll soon forget them altogether._

_Coming to a stop, Mar turns his gaze to the horizon, hoping to see an outline of towering buildings, a glimmer of metal or wink of stone. There is nothing but endless blue and screeching seagulls. The world feels empty; he_ feels _empty. Tears well in his eyes, heart sinking as he falls to the sand in a hopeless heap. Knees drawn to his chest; arms wound tightly around them; Mar begins to cry, tears trickling down his face, dropping to the sand below._

_If only he had a friend, someone brave and kind and funny._

_Mar’s eyelids grow heavy, slipping closed against the downpour of tears. In the distance, someone calls his name, not Mar, the new one he’s been given, but he’s too tired to lift his head. Sleep crests in, warm and welcome like an embrace. The voice calls again, sounding further away. Mar doesn’t give chase, letting the wind carry it away. He falls asleep under the midday sun, tears drying on his cheeks, to the circling thought of if only I had a friend._

_If only I had a friend._

_If only I had a friend…_

**~~~~~~~~~~**

Jak feels fractured, like splintered glass, like old bones. He feels like the word fragile – one touch, and he’ll shatter. But that’s not entirely true, Erol _is_ touching him, and he does not break, though it feels like he could. Like he should. The pieces stay together, though they are being jostled, rattled from the inside. This torture, this _invasion_ will end soon, will leave Jak’s skin sticky and blossoming bruises. He fought tonight, resisted with teeth and fists, but the struggle only encouraged Erol, made him brutal and unforgiving. Black and blue, wrangled into submission, Jak’s strength waned, body submitting to Erol’s will.

Like a marionette, he danced, the steps obscene and against his will. Fingers tighten in his hair as Erol’s hips rock faster, filth filling his mouth, body pressed so close he can’t breathe, can’t do anything but chock down the Commander’s length. When it’s over, for now – for tonight, if he’s lucky – Erol shoves him away, a toy no longer of use. Bile rises in the back of Jak’s throat, burning and bitter, but he swallows it down, knowing it will only anger Erol if he vomits.

Jak shudders, stomach cramping and revolting against its contents. Doubling over, Jak struggles to breathe, to find a focal point in the room that’s suddenly spinning madly. A wave of dizziness washes over him, suspending him in a haze of fog and terror. Ice gathers in his chest, freezing bones, encasing organs. Jak’s heart beats against the cold, racing, racing, _racing_ , the pounding thunderous in his head. It hurts to breathe, his throat raw and shredded from the abuse.

The pieces threaten to come apart, to shatter glistening shards all over the dirty concrete floor. The splinters spread, leaving more fractures, more wounds that may never get the chance to heal. Tears stream down his bruised and battered face, exposing weakness.

“There, there, Jak-” Erol grabs his chin, jerking it up, “-that wasn’t so difficult, was it?” He runs a thumb over his swollen lips. “A little gratitude goes a long way.”

The fragments shudder and shake, heart sinking to the pit of his stomach, where it sits amongst churning bile. Tonight, could have been worse; _this_ can always get worse, can stretch on for hours, Erol’s stamina seemingly endless, his desire insatiable. Jak should count his blessings, be grateful that it’s over, that Erol is fastening his zipper and heading for the door, leaving him to come apart in the dark.

**~~~~~~~~~~**

_The first rays of grey morning light ripple in the receding tide, the cool breeze from the night lingering, rifling fingers through yellowing hair. The sand is cold under bare feet, the salt air chasing away the tendrils of a bad dream. This isn’t the first morning Jak has risen early, forced from the comfort of his bed to the quiet stretch of beach. He’s no stranger to nightmares, to unsettling dreams of half-forgotten places and worn-out faces._

_His subconscious is a minefield littered with forbidden names and scratched out memories. Samos warned him not to chase the ghosts that haunt his mind, told him it would do no good looking back, unlocking pandora’s box. After all, they are just dreams, figments of his imagination. The monster living in his head, with glistening fangs, can’t really hurt him. Sandover is safe, the villagers watch out for one another, and the sages and warriors protect them from lurkers and thieves._

_One day, when Jak is older, he’ll bel become one of the fierce warriors that protect Sandover – he’ll be brave and strong and true. Manhood is still many years away, and though Jak doesn’t consider himself to be cowardly or easily frightened – he’s far braver than the other village boys – in the wake of his nightmare, he feels spooked. It’s a strange sensation that sits like a cold stone in the bottom of his stomach, making him feel queasy. Uneasy._

_Shivering, he shrinks into himself, the empty horizon pressing him, a reminder of how vast the world. Loneliness awakens in his bones, a chill that cannot be warmed by fire or sun. The receding tide crests over Jak’s feet, a reminder that it too is leaving him – He follows it out, chilled water rising to his knees. Sunlight breaks through the watery grey of dawn, the golden rays falling over Jak. Inhaling the salt air, Jak tilts his back, bathing in the golden light._

_It does not thaw his bones, but there is a flicker, a spark that gives him strength. He releases the remnants of the bad dream, the weight of loneliness, sending them out to sea, where they can do harm to none. Exhaling, Jak opens his eyes, taking in the new day rising. He’s about to return home – hunger replacing the queasy sensation in his stomach – when something bright catches his eyes. Looking towards the cove, Jak discovers flames flickering in the sand._

_No, not flames – hair._

_Without hesitation, Jak dashes to the patch of red, the thin body of an unconscious boy forming as he nears. Dropping to the sand, Jak rolls the boy over, relieved to see he is breathing. Where did he come from? A quick scan of the horizon reveals no signs of a shipwreck – it’s as if the boy just appeared, was placed gently down on the shore by the Precursors themselves. That can’t be true, though. The Precursors don’t just drop boys out of the sky or toss them out of the ocean._

_With nothing else to do, no one else to save, Jak carefully shakes the boy, hoping he’ll wake, prepared to carry him to Samos’s hut if not. The boy mutters, pale, freckled face contorting as a moan escapes past his blue-tinged lips. Shivering, the boy rolls over, muttering something about five more minutes. Jak chuckles quietly, relieved the boy isn’t hurt. He shakes him again, this time not ceasing until the boy’s eyes open wide, body shooting up like a wind-up toy._

_“Hey, I’m tryin’ sleep here,” he shouted, a lisp to his words. “What’s your problem?”_

_Jak flinches, his throat constricting in desire to speak, to say hello, to tell the boy his name and where he is. Frustrated, Jak lowers his gaze, hating the burn of tears. The other children make fun of him for being mute, and some adults are irritated by it. No matter how hard Jak tries, the words just won’t come out._

_“This isn’t home,” the boy said, voice rising shrilly. “Where am I?” He turns wide blue eyes towards Jak. “Are you lost too?”_

_Tears well in the boy’s eyes, bottom lip trembling as his chest heaves. There is a pang in Jak’s chest, paired with that awful familiar ache of loneliness. It appears this boy is just as lost and misplaced as he is. Blinking back tears of his own, Jak rises to his feet, hand outstretched for the boy to take. The boy takes his hand, fingers pruned and dry, and Jak helps him rise, hoping this act of kindness can convey what his voice cannot._

_You’re not alone, it says, I’m lost too._

_“Thanks.” The red-haired boy brushes away a stray tear. “My names Daxter. What’s yours?”_

_Jak opens his mouth, only air coming out._

_“Oh, you can’t talk?”_

_Jak shakes his head, hand unconsciously rising to rest at the base of his throat._

_“That’s okay,” the boy – Daxter – says, grinning. “I can guess?”_

_Jak crocks his head to the side, lips tugging into a small smile._

_“I better it’s something tough, like Axel or something exotic like Zane.”_

_Jak huffs silently, touched by Daxter’s eagerness._

_“No, maybe a little more old-school?” he strokes his chin thought. “Thomas? Herbert?”_

_Jak wrinkles his nose, gaze sweeping over the sand in a light bulb moment. Bending, Jak runs his finger through the sand, spelling out his name, ignoring the urge to write another. He stands up, grinning broadly as he motions for Daxter, who is still rattling off names, to look down._

_“Oh…” Daxter’s gaze falls to the ground, mouth closing for a moment. “Jak,” he says, stretching the A out, the K whistling through the missing space in his top teeth. “I like it.” He beams, somehow the most lively and bright thing on the shore despite being drenched. “It’s simple yet has a punch to it.” He mock punches the air._

_Jak shakes his head, chest shaking with silent laughter. They start to walk, side by side. It’s strange; Daxter feels familiar, like one of the ghosts in his head. The morning breeze whips about them, the tide receding as the sun rises higher, it’s warmth and light stirring awake the slumbering villagers. Something tugs at the back of Jak’s mind, a wisp trying to sneak through the gaps, whisper things that are best left in the dark. He’s about to give chase, follow the thread into the dark, when a thud jars him back to the beach._

_Daxter is gone. For a terrifying moment, Jak fears the boys vanished, was swallowed up by the sand or dragged out to sea, their possible friendship gone with him. But then Jak hears a groan followed by a string of muttered words, and the fear subsides, cheeks burning in embarrassment. Turning around, Jak finds Daxter sprawled out on the ground, spitting out sand. Shaking his head at Daxter’s clumsiness and his own foolishness, he walks back to him, once more holding out his hand._

_“Thanks.” Daxter accepts it with a smile. “I’ve still got sea legs.”_

_Jak returns the smile, lingering a moment to make sure Daxter is steady._

_“You know Jak,” Daxter says, dusting sand from his damp clothes, “I think you and I are going to be good friends.”_

_Friends._

_A friend._

_Jak’s smile widens, excitement taking hold of him. He grabs hold of Daxter’s bony wrist, tugging him along as he takes off at a run, leading Daxter back towards the village, leaving a troubled mind and a lonely past behind._

**~~~~~~~~~~**

Please, he mouths, no sound coming out. Please make it stop. Please just let the words come out this once. Jak tries again, feels the knot in his throat constrict. He has vocal cords, a voice box, but they’ve never been able to produce words, and all they can allow now is screams.

 _Please_.

He wants this to stop. For this humiliation to be over.

 _Please_.

The muscles in his neck strain, mouth forming silent pleas. If he just speaks, this will be over. It’s been hours, but it feels like centuries. Erol is relentless, the torture endless. He’s been stripped off his clothing, chained and put-on display, his pain and misery capturing an audience, their jeers and snickers encouraging Erol to lash harder. The whip cracks, tearing away flesh, tearing a scream from his aching throat.

 _Please_.

He’s cold, so very cold.

 _Please_.

He desperately wants to be warm, to be dressed.

 _Please_.

He’s losing sensation, losing consciousness.

_Please…_

Just one word, and _this will_ stop. Erol promised. Say just one thing, and he can have his clothes back, can have his wounds cleaned and healed.

One word and the pain will stop.

Just one word.

_Please…_

“Please.” The word tears from his throat, a broken whisper that barely catches Erol’s attention. “Please stop,” Jak speaks louder this time, voice mangled and rough like he’s swallowed knives and burning coal. There is no memory of speaking before this day, not even Daxter or Keira could encourage words from his throat, but Erol has done the impossible with his violence and dedication. He reached in with blood-soaked hands and pulled Jak’s voice painfully free.

“Say that again.” Erol is before him, fingers tangling in his hair, yanking his head back.

“P… please…” The words feel foreign on his tongue, voice distant and unfamiliar. It feels unnatural, each word sharp and wrong in his mouth.

“Please what?”

“Please.” A tear streaks down Jak’s cheeks, burning with humiliation and agony. “Please stop.”

“That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” Erol kneels, taking Jak’s face between his hands, smearing the tears away with bloodstained thumbs. “The Baron will be most pleased.” He smiles smugly, rising to his feet in one swift motion. “I’ll have the guards take you to the infirmary.”

Jak’s head jerks up, heart jolting, hope sparking a fragile ember. Phoenix is in the infirmary. Phoenix is safe. Phoenix promised him freedom… but freedom never came. He stabbed Jak in the back, gave away his last tie to the heroic village boy. Anger simmers beneath the ice, a quiet rage swelling within. Jak is far too exhausted and hurt to let it free right now, but he holds tight to it, nurturing the flame, knowing he’ll need it again one day. For now, there is no point fighting or resisting, his back is in shreds, his mind in ruins, and the darkness is rushing in.

He falls forward, succumbing to the abyss.

**~~~~~~~~~~**

_The cove is the perfect place to learn to swim, the shallow waters warm and calm. Jak mastered the waves long ago, learnt to surf and dive deep for sunken treasures. He was born from sand and sea, was strong and untameable like the wild currants. Daxter wasn't one with the ocean; he preferred to stay on dry land, soak in the sun, though it turned him red and added to the freckles sprinkled across his nose. If he were to follow Jak in, he'd stay in the shallows, eyes darting between the shore and the deep blue water stretching out into infinity. Daxter's fear of the ocean was understandable, considering it swallowed his parents, tossing him out._

_Daxter doesn’t remember his parents’ names or where they were from, all he can recall is bright orange hair that glowed like fire. The rest is blank. A long stretch of nothing until he woke to Jak’s concerned and curious face. Daxter doesn't dwell on his missing parents the way Jak does his – who tears himself to pieces over the lost memories, capsizing in his longing to find them. Sometimes, if all is quiet and the world still, Jak can feel his parent’s phantom hands on his shoulders, sense their love, wherever it may be coming from._

_Letting the sorrowful thoughts drift away – he’s agonised long enough over his lost linage – Jak steps into the water, wading out with Daxter anxiously at his side. The waves lap gently at their ankles, calling them out. Jak glances at Daxter, who’s head is on a swivel, wide eyes scanning for rogue waves or the pointed fin of a Lurker shark. The cove is safe; the Lurker sharks prefer the deep, dark depths of the oceans._

_“Jak, is this safe?” Daxter asked like he’d caught the tail end of Jak’s thoughts. “What about the Lurker Sharks.”_

_“Don’t worry so much,” Jak signed, smiling encouragingly. There’s nothing to worry about; the water is calm and crystal clear, the only sea creatures small and harmless - and they are Jak and Daxter, nothing bad will ever happen to them. "We'll be fine.”_

_“Easy for you to say,” Daxter exclaims, arms flailing about. He’s always in motion, also so alive and vibrant, “you can swim.”_

_Jak stops, turning to face Daxter. “I’d never let you drown.” He places both hands on his best friend's bony shoulders, emphasising his words._ His promise.

_The tension evaporates from Daxter’s tiny, tightly coiled frame, an exaggerated breath escaping past his lips. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” His face brightens, the glimmer in his eyes revealing unspoken gratitude, a promise of their own. “Alright, let's do this,” he folds his arms, stubborn and braver than he gives himself credit for, “before I change my mind.”_

_Jak takes Daxter by the wrist, smiling widely as he leads them from the shallows, away from his fears, into the peaceful waters of the cove._

**~~~~~~~~~~**

He’s burning up, dark eco coursing through his veins, filling him with violent impulses. His mouth tastes of blood and burnt sugar, is open wide in a silent scream, throat shredded from the abuse. The pain is maddening, is all-consuming. The violent rage awakens, pulsating alongside the dark eco, a lifeline keeping him afloat, keeping him conscious. Through the watery red haze, Jak finds Praxis, can feel his disapproving gaze against his skin, like pricks of ice.

Wicked thoughts flicker in Jak’s mind, images of blood and carnage carrying him to the end of the excruciating treatment. He is filled with raw fury and dark eco. It grows, _festers_ in his blood, sprouting toxic spores that settle in the spaces between his ribs. He is becoming something else, something dangerous.

_Something monstrous._

***

There’s blood on his hands, dripping from numb fingertips, collecting in the pool of crimson growing at his feet. There’s white noise in his head, filled with muffled voices, the pounding of a heart. The world tilts and wilts, feeling far, _far_ away. It’s like a dream, like watching reality in slow motion with the sound distorted. There is a man, who is, _was_ someone’s son, someone’s friend, twitching, gurgling, _dying_ on the floor, and Jak put him there.

Only moments ago, he was alive, was standing strong on his feet, swinging punches, and taking orders, a perfect soldier in the making. Now he’s a crumbled mess of broken bones, chest rising in pathetic attempts to fill collapsed lungs with air. The sharp angles of his face are caved in, are black and purple and red. The room is full of motion, desperation, but Jak is frozen, _paralysed_. What has he done? What has he become? 

He’s used to the taste of copper on his tongue, familiar with the sting of split knuckles and ache of blossoming bruises. This wasn’t the first fight Praxis and Commander Erol forced him into. It’s just another test of endurance, of obedience. Fight or be punished. Prove to be strong or risk being tossed away, a failed warrior, a waste, a shame. Fight and win and be rewarded with another day, with a seal of approval from a mad king. 

There’s no leaving the match without breaking bones and tasting blood. Everyone is desperate to survive, though there isn’t much worth surviving for. Walk away the champion, and the prize is more pain, more dark eco and miserable days. Losing would be a mercy, an escape, but the prisoners aren’t allowed to throw killing blows. Yet Jak has. His hands are covered in blood, fingers twitching, the tremor spreading, settling in his bones.

What has he done?

Anger consumed him, stealing the air from his lungs, burning like righteous fire through his veins. Rage spilled out, violent and deadly. Now it’s gone, evaporated, leaving something malicious, something _wrong_ in its place. Jak’s insides smoulder, turning organs to ash, filling his head with smoke. He feels ill. Wants to crawl out of his body, wants to scream, scream so loud that the sound travels to every cell and through every hall, bursting out the window in a sonic boom, echoing across the churning sea to the city of lights.

He does not scream, does not shed his skin to find a new home to live in; instead, he falls to his knees, hollowed out, numb to the pain, to the slick blood seeping through the thin fabric of his torn pants. It shimmers purple under the fluorescent lights, tainted by dark eco even after death. If someone were to bash Jak’s skull open, cut him open and carve out his organs, the same thick, violet-flecked blood would spill out.

What has he become?

**~~~~~~~~~~**

_“Ow, crap, stupid useless fishing hook!”_

_Jak looked up from the stream at the sound of Daxter’s distress. They’d come to the Forbidden Jungle to catch the villagers some fish for dinner. Jak’s creel was half full, containing some yellow trout and pink river cod. Daxter’s was empty, though his pockets were weighed down with rocks for the Sculpturer. There was also a hook sticking out of his thumb, the source of the cursing._

_Jak pressed a hand to his cheek, shaking his head in amusement; he has no idea how Daxter does these things._

_“Don’t look at me like that! This wasn’t my idea!” He waved his hands around, trickling droplets of blood onto the worn-out bridge below. “I wanted to collect coconuts.”_

_Daxter didn’t want to collect coconuts; he wanted Jak to while he lounged around in the shade of a palm tree. Jak says as much with a simple quirk of his brow._

_Red brows furrow stubbornly over blue eyes, not in mean spirit, but as a playful gesture. It’s a little a game, a stare down that Daxter often does when he doesn’t want to admit Jak is right. A minute passes, a cool breeze blows from downstream, carrying away Daxter’s resolve. The corners of his mouth twitching, twitching, twitching like the whiskers of a muse._

_“Alright, fine!” he throws his hands up in defeat. “I wanted to lie on the beach and soak up some rays.” He wiggled his fiery eyebrows. “I don’t like fishing. I don’t like the jungle-” he slaps at the air “-and I hate mosquitoes!”_

_Stifling a laugh, Jak gets to his feet, moving towards Daxter, who’s starting to pale. Jak takes his hand, examining the damage; it’s nothing serious, though the hook is still embedded in his flesh. He goes to pry it free, but Daxter pulls away._

_“What if it gets infected?” He asked, voice shrill with unnecessary panic. “I don’t want to lose my hand!!! I need this hand!!”_

_Jak places both hands on Daxter’s shoulders, calming him with a firm but gently look._

_“If I lose my hand, I’m holding you personally responsible.”_

_Jak rolled his eyes, retook Daxter’s hand, then pulled the hook free._

_“Warn a guy next time!” Daxter yelped, cradling his hand to his chest._

_Jak watched a trickle of blood fall from the extracted hook, a speck of life falling through the cracks to the water below. Without much thought, Jak pricked his finger on the sharp tip, much to Daxter’s horror._

_“What is wrong with you, Jak?”_

_Setting the hook down, Jak reaches for Daxter’s hand, pressing his bleeding finger against his thumb. Blood brothers. Not by nature, but by choice, by fate. He promised to never let Daxter drown, and Daxter promised to always be by his side._

_“That is so gross, Jak.” Daxter’s nostrils flared in disgust, but he didn’t pull away._

_“Blood brothers,” Jak signed, the motions creations of their own._

_“Very sweet, Jak,” Daxter grumbled, but his smile was back. “Now, we can both get infections and lose our hands.”_

_Jak shook his head, amused to no end at Daxter’s ability to dramatise anything. “Then we’ll be hook brothers,” he signed, grinning._

_“Yeah, and we can sail the seven seas and plunder for treasure!”_

_Jak isn’t sure that’s how the saying goes, but sailing the seven seas, with his best friend, blood brother at his side, sounds perfect._

**~~~~~~~~~~**

He’s black and blue, barely breathing, barely surviving. The blood was scrubbed roughly from his skin days ago, the task performed by another faceless guard, who muttered and grunted about having to do the shitty jobs. If Jak hadn’t curled up somewhere in his mind, shielded away in a world of golden sand dunes, then he would have washed the blood and grit away himself. But something within him broke, _shattered_.

Three days ago, the last remaining threads, torn and frayed, connecting Jak to the heroic village boy severed. No more golden child, no more care-free spirit. The fire was smothered, drenched in blood, knocked out by angry fists. Jak hid within, taking shelter in an ancient castle carved out of white-washed stone. There Jak was safe, _untouchable._ Erol’s anger could not break through the thick walls that had stood for centuries, surviving even the harshest of storms.

The pain from the guards rigorous scrubbing was merely a faint prickle, chased away by the warmth of phantom sunlight. Tucked away in the castle of sand and stone, which felt like the echo of a memory, Jak found himself free from guilt – here he was not a killer or a hero, was not riddled with disgust and tainted by dark eco. He was just a boy.

Was free.

But freedom never lasts.

The cold, cruel world always drags him back, raking his body over broken glass, through seas of dark eco. Jak emerges to the ache of bruises and bite of frigid air. The cell is quiet and dark, muted light seeping in from the window above. Body aching, skin burning, Jak rolls onto his side, shrivelling up helplessly, _hopelessly_ under the threadbare blanket. Fragmented memories of being forcefully stripped and shoved under the icy torrent flicker in his mind.

The guard has left marks, finger-shaped bruises, and ripped flesh, but it’s nothing compared to the pain Commander Erol inflicted. Jak messed up. He went too far, lost himself in the rage, disobeying orders and making Erol look a fool. It is his purpose, after all, to be a weapon, to be an obedient soldier. There are no sparks left for the brave adventurer, no innocence for the sweet village boy. The light in his heart has been snuffed out; the fight chased from fragile bones.

The hero is dead, and all that’s left are sharp and twisted things.

****

Another day crawls by slowly, bruises fading, cuts scabbing over, guilt, _disgust_ festering. The air reeks of misery and sweat, the artificial heat blasting through the vents is suffocatingly warm – Jak’s lying broken on the floor, the unbruised side of face pressed against the concrete, desperate to feel the slightest bit of coolness. When tired eyes grow heavy, and the hunger becomes too much, exhaustion will rush in, and when Jak wakes, minutes or hours later, the cell will be frozen over, the ground ice beneath his shivering frame.

This horrible cycle loops endlessly, leaving Jak dizzy and ill from a fever that might just be in his head. This must be what going mad feels like, for surely if this cycle continues again, again, _again_ , he’ll lose his damn mind. That’s if the hunger doesn’t take him first. He’d give anything for a slice of fresh-baked bread, for a crisp, juicy apple.

His mouth waters at the thought, stomaching aching, growling. He’s starving, _ravenous_ , and cold, or perhaps he is hot, feverishly so, but his skin is numb, insides fire and ice. Precursors, he wants to scream, to cry, but he doesn’t have the energy to fulfil this desire. All he can do is lie alone in the dark, drawing patterns on the floor with raw fingertips, mind caught between this harsh grey world and the edge of brighter times.

He finds himself standing on the beach, a cool breeze rifling fingers through his hair, carrying a song. The woman’s voice echoes around him, bittersweet and painfully familiar. Jak gives chase, following the voice on the wind, running by memories that are frozen in time. The beach stretches on for miles and miles, the sun always high in the sky, its golden rays rippling in the ocean waves. The landscape shifts, turning from Sentinel Beach to Geyser Rock to an unfamiliar and wild oasis.

Still, Jak runs, lured by the faint prickle of familiarity.

He runs until the sky darkens, until the calm waves begin to churn, water turning inky black. The pleasant memories ripple around him, his friends smiling faces distorting, eyes filling with fear, _revulsion_. They turn against him one by one, their voices rising above the sweet melody, cruel, _taunting_ words chasing him back to the cold, grey world. Jak gasps awake, lungs struggling to expend in their broken cage, expecting to find the air stifling hot or sharp as ice, but it is neither.

Peeling himself up off the floor, Jak hobbles towards the sink, splashing water onto his face before taking a drink, hating the way it tastes metallic and dirty, never really quenching his thirst. The water sits uncomfortably in his empty stomach, worsening the hunger. Food should arrive soon, providing Commander Erol was finished with this current punishment. Stumbling away from the sink, Jak perches on the edge of the rickety cot, pulling at the loose threads of the blanket, thinking how just one good tug could unravel the whole thing. That’s how he felt, one tug and he’d unravel, _unspool_ all over the dirty floor, all the king’s horses, and all the king’s men unable to put him together again.

Maybe it would be better that way.

Give up, _give in_ , let the pieces crumble.

The hiss of the hydraulic door pulls Jak back from the brink. Fingers tightening on the fraying blanket, he braced for whatever torture was to come. A guard strolled in, crimson uniform polished and gleaming in the light spilling in from behind him. He lazily swings the chain of his access cards around a gloved finger, the other hand resting on the hilt of his stun baton. He reeks of arrogance, is unnecessarily aggressive when he speaks, demanding Jak get to his feet.

Jak obeys without fuss, too tired and hungry and torn apart to put up a fight. The guard grabs him by the elbow, roughly dragging him out into the brightly lit corridor. The light assaults him, stirring awake a sharp pain behind his eyes, making him sway momentarily. The guard’s grip tightens on his elbow, fingers digging in deep enough to leave bruises. More bruises. Squinting, stumbling along, Jak does his best to match the guard’s quick pace, trying his hardest to keep his head up.

He’s given up on showing any semblance of strength and dignity by the time they reached their destination, which is a blood-red door set in the middle of a dozen grey ones. It feels like he’s walked for miles, feet cold and sore on the concrete floor, sense of direction scrambled by the many twists and turns, the ups and downs. The guard knocks, firm and precise, and a muffled voice calls out ‘enter’ from the other side. For a moment, the crimson door bleeds into the grey walls, the corridor tilting and distorting.

Legs threaten to buckle, hunger opening wide within, a cavernous hole begging to be filled. What will it take to be fed? Does he have to get down on his knees and beg now he has a voice to do so? Or will Erol force him to his knees for another reason, demanding payment, a show of obedience? A violent shudder tears through Jak at the thought, stomach revolting in protest. Slamming the door closed on the unpleasant feeling – the harrowing memories – he exhales a shaky breath, letting the air refill his burning lungs.

The crimson door opens silently, golden eyes and a cunning smile cutting through the lingering swirls of grey. Jak’s heart drops to the pit of his empty stomach, breath hitching high into his throat as his body turns to stone. _Run_ , begs a fragile, young voice, _please run_. But there’s nowhere to run, no secret passageway or hidden room that will lead to freedom. There is no escape from this hellish place. No mercy. The guard shoves him roughly forward, across the threshold, into Erol’s web of misery and madness.

“Take a seat, Jak,” Erol orders, gesturing to the right.

Hesitantly Jak walks towards the chair, discreetly taking in his new surroundings. The lavish room feels far removed from the cold and gritty cell, could be mistaken for a cosy den if it weren’t for Erol’s intimidating presence absorbing the warmth. His dark aura fills up every space, is thick and heavy as the rain clouds outside the enormous windows. Struggling to maintain a brave façade, Jak sinks into the chair, tucking his hands out of sight so Erol can’t see them tremble.

Erol strolls to the other side of the impressive desk, taking a seat, like a king upon a thorn, in the crimson chair. Jak narrows his eyes, hands curling into fists, nails biting into soft flesh. Outside rain falls, trailing down the windowpane like tears – in the distance, the city of lights burns brightly against the approaching night. A hush falls over the room, uncomfortable and tense, both sides waiting for the other to make a move.

Jak feels out of place among the shiny things, feels small and vulnerable in this large, brightly lit space. Which is stupid; this room is filled with things to fight with, brimming with objects that could crack the Commanders skull open. His fingers twitch, _itch_ , desperate to take the paperweight from Erol’s desk and shatter his cunning smile. There’s no point; he’d never be fast enough. Has never _been_ fast enough – every scar, every blood-soaked memory a reminder of that.

If he’d been faster, stronger, than he wouldn’t be here, with dark eco pulsating through his veins and his skin marked by cruel men. Fighting is useless, fleeing hopeless. Fear laces a noose around his neck, chipping away the fragile mask of bravery.

The silence presses in, loaded and electric like the storm gathering outside. Erol’s chilling demeanour does not falter. He sits smugly behind the mahogany desk, basking in the ability to have and do whatever he pleases. It’s somewhat ironic that Baron Praxis is trying to make men into monsters when there is already one in his rank. Under his control. No, Erol might be loyal to the Baron, devoted to their cause, but everything he does, every immoral deed is done for his own pleasure.

Cruelty breeds cruelty, and the Baron is as wicked as they come. And Erol? Erol is rage and fire. Is a man who takes joy in being malicious, in hurting, _taking_ and breaking others. He is violence and grace, is filled with hatred and twisted desires. The word wicked does not do him justice. He is something else. Something that stirs awake a fear so cold and immense that at times it leaves Jak paralysed. Even now, sitting casually, weaponless, armour stripped away, he still holds power over Jak.

Erol crocks his head to the side, a rather coy expression for such an intimidating man. The noose tightens, air catching in Jak’s throat as dread settles over him like frost. Erol’s playing a game, winding him up like a toy, savouring every second of it. The silence is calculated, the setting, from the thunderous backdrop to the insidious lighting, designed to unnerve _, unsettle_. Insidious… the word echoes in Jak’s head, crawls over his skin like spiders. _Insidious_ … that is what Erol is.

Jak steels himself against the cold sweep of the rising panic. Outside, lightning strikes across the sky, the sound rattling Jak to the core. Erol remains motionless, unaffected by the chaos around him. Then, like a switch flipped, Erol’s thin lips curl at the edges, golden eyes flickering with malicious intent. Jak shrinks under the heated gaze, brittle bravado crumbling to dust.

“What will it take for you to obey me, Jak?” He speaks, at last, voice terrifyingly calm. 

“I want you to stop.” The words tumble out, desperate and uneven. 

“Stop what?” He asked, right brow arching high in mockery. 

“You know what.” Jak doesn’t have a word for what happens to him in the dark, just a deep sense that it’s wrong, that it’s a violation. A violation of his body, of his mind. It is a brutal, vile act that is meant to be gentle, shared between lovers. There is no love between them, but there is something… _something_ Jakdoes not have a word for. 

“But that’s no fun,” Erol says, feigning disappointment, “and I deserve to have my fun, Jak.” He leant forward, unwavering gaze holding Jak in place. “How about I make you a deal?” he pauses, letting the words hang enticingly in the air. “You start following my orders, and I’ll cut _those_ visits back.”

Jak’s breath hitchers, mind screaming in warning. Erol is not to be trusted, no _one_ in this hellish place is to be trusted, but he’s desperate to make _those_ visits stop. Chest filling with fragile hope, Jak straightens in the chair, barely keeping it together as he asks, “all of it?” 

“You’re not really in the position to be asking for anything, Jak, so don’t push your luck.” Erol snapped, composed façade rippling. “However-” thin lips curled at the edges, the sharpness of the smile reaching his eyes, “-I’d be willing to exchange favours to make your life more comfortable.” 

“I have nothing to offer you,” he replied, voice breaking. 

“Oh, Jak,” Erol said, voice sickly sweet, “you have so much to offer.” 

Jak flinched, instinctively shrinking into the chair. He wants to disappear, to turn into a trail of smoke, and vanish in the air, unable to be caged. Unable to be _touched_. 

“And I don’t just mean your body,” he smiled appraisingly, the compliment settling like ice on Jak’s skin. “You have so much potential, Jak. If you just _obeyed_ me, then this experience could be a whole lot more bearable.” 

Bearable? How can any of this ever be bearable? 

“It’s awfully uncomfortable in that cell of yours-” Erol continued, the venomous honey lacing every word “-I could change that.” He places a yellow-gloved hand over his chest, where a heart should be. “I can give you so much, Jak. All you have to do is agree to my terms.” 

If Daxter and Keira could see him now, making a deal with the devil, they’d be disgusted. Samos would be heartbroken. The brave boy he helped raise, the hero he made, was gone, left in pieces… _in ruins_. Jak has nothing left to lose. Dignity was shattered months ago, hope and courage ripped from his chest. He’s so very tired of fighting, is hungry, hurting, _always hurting_ , and cold, and this, _this_ God-awful deal, is the only way to make it stop. Erol will never offer freedom, will never stop torturing and _violating_ him, but at least this messed up arrangement gives him a semblance of control. 

Bearable is something. Is better than nothing. 

Bowing his head, Jak accepts his fate. 

“See, that wasn’t so hard.” Erol chuckled. “How about we seal the deal?” 

Jak’s head jerks up. “B…but you j…just s…said.” The words trip and tremble on his tongue, body stiffening as ice floods his bloodstream. 

“After today, if you obey my every order, this will only occur twice a month,” he instructed. “Date of my choosing, of course.” He smirks, radiating with smug victory.

“But only once,” Jak trembles, daring to ask at the risk of monstrous wrath, “on those days.”

“Once,” he agreed, “if you’ve behaved.” 

Jak nodded, stomach swarming with razor winged butterflies that nestle amongst the emerging thorns. “Okay…” Eyes close against the sting of tears, the burn _humiliation._ The following word climbs up his throat like shards of broken glass. “Deal.” 

“Very good, Jak,” Erol praised, tone cutting to the bone. “I knew there was an obedient boy in there somewhere.” 

Jak shudders, shrinking further into himself as he hears the rustle of movement, sensing Erol come closer, closer, _closer._

“Now, now, Jak,” there’s a hand on the back of his neck, “no disassociating,” the fingers squeeze, hard enough to leave bruises, “it’s really no fun.” 

With no other choice, Jak opens his eyes, bracing for the pain that is to come. 

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 2 will be uploaded tomorrow :) then after that, it will be weekly updates (I'm aiming for every Sunday) this fic is still a work in progress, and though I have 13 chapters complete some chapters might be delayed as I am spoonie and sometimes my health prevents me from writing. Updates should be regular for the first 13 chapters, then if I'm a little delayed I might have a little break between part 1 and part 2, but nothing longer than a few weeks :) Thank you for your understanding, and I look forward to sharing this fic with you lovely people!


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